


Piratology

by Kokochan, TheBlueSpanch



Series: Of The Pack [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, An Even More Disturbing Lack Of Shiro, BAMF Pidge | Katie Holt, Blades of Marmora, Cookies, Cooking, Dragons, Drama, Gen, Humor, Illness/Recovery, Is It Slow Burn If You Haven't Even Lit The Match Yet, Magic, Multi, Obligatory Man-Eating Monster, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirate Princess Pidge, Post-Season/Series 02, Prophetic Dreams, Space Battles, Space Pirates, Team Bonding, Team as Family, so many aliens, someone stop us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 255,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12403140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokochan/pseuds/Kokochan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueSpanch/pseuds/TheBlueSpanch
Summary: The girl looked up, seeing something towering above her, sand-colored and spiky with a wide streak of glittering blue down its throat. Something about the colors and the spikes was comforting, and she relaxed a little and turned her attention back to the other creature, who was muttering grumpily as it sifted through other blurs.“What's your name, girl, if it can be told?” the mild voice from above asked quietly.The girl opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't. She had no answer to give. “I don't know,” she whispered, and was surprised at the unfamiliar sound of her own voice.





	1. Strange Company

**Author's Note:**

> And we begin arc three of this insane ride! Hello everyone! Did you miss us?  
> *the sound of crickets*  
> Well, at least the crickets sound enthusiastic... Ah, well. Away we go!

 

Piratology

Part 3 of _Of The Pack_

 

Chapter 1: Strange Company

 

“Will they be all right?” Coran asked Tilla, who grunted unhappily.

The Paladins and Lizenne were all very ill. Only grim determination and habit had allowed the Paladins to pilot their Lions back into their hangars, but they had gotten no further. Coran and the others found them unconscious in their cockpits on arrival. Worse, they had visibly lost weight, their armor suddenly far too loose on their bodies, the bones of their faces visible under graying skin. The two dragons had bullied Modhri, Coran, Zaianne and Kolanth into bringing everyone into the room on the training deck where the mind trip had taken place, and had cast one of their spell-songs over the wounded. Modhri had been hummed over too, although he was the only one who showed any visible improvement. They had just gotten the Paladins out of their armor and into the healing pods for a long session; Soluk sighed and licked Tilla's face comfortingly, then nudged Modhri in the shoulder.

“Yes?” Modhri asked, not looking away from the pod that held his mate.

Soluk rumbled a long string of churrs and crackles.

Modhri nodded. “All right. Will hantic do, or one of the juices?”

Tilla chirped.

“If you say so, but she's going to be a little annoyed about that. Sintras bloom only for a very short time, you know.”

Soluk chuffed and crackled again.

“I bow to your wisdom,” Modhri said, suiting his words to the deed. “Thank you.”

Coran looked back and forth between them quizzically. “Do we get a translation of that?”

Modhri smiled. “When they come out, we are to give them copious amounts of hantic tea, well-laced with sintra nectar. They've been poisoned, among other things. Fortunately, the dragons have taken care of those other things.”

Zaianne gave the dragons a penetrating look. “And those were?”

Modhri shook his head sadly. “I don't know. They were using terms that I don't recognize. They certainly sounded dreadful. Lizenne will be able to tell us more when the healing cycle is finished. What worries me is that it looked like Pidge took the worst of it, and has been lost. I very much doubt that she will find someone able to treat her injuries properly. Do you have any idea of where she might have ended up?”

“None,” Coran admitted, “I was too busy trying to keep the Castle from flying apart.”

Zaianne snorted. “And I was concentrating on keeping the wormhole stable. Her Lion is well out of range of our sensors. All I can hope is that she is able to build another transmitter like the last time this happened. Coran and I might be able to extrapolate where she might have fallen out, but it will take time. It will take even more time before the Paladins are fit to fly again.”

“I am sorry that I have been so useless during this event,” Kolanth apologized. “I can at least start sifting through the newsnets. No matter where you go, a Lion is noteworthy. Perhaps I will be able to find something.”

“I can only hope,” Modhri murmured.

 

Somewhere, a very long way away, the green Lion popped in out of nowhere and tumbled helplessly down onto an unregarded rogue moonlet. Despite this being a particularly deserted patch of space, its descent did not go unnoticed. Deserted patches of space have their uses, after all, particularly as places to lurk where it's unlikely for a lurker to be found. In this case, the lurker in question was a shipful of pirates whose luck had not been terribly good of late, and anything out of the ordinary attracted their attention. Especially now, since it was late-shift and everybody was asleep except for the three persons on lookout duty.

“Did you see that, Haswick?” asked one of them, a tall orange fellow with enormous ears that an Earthling might find comparable to an African elephant's.

His companion, who was smallish and slimmish and covered in dark-blue bristles, waved three of his eight hands in an affirmative gesture and rumbled in a surprisingly deep voice, “Yeah. Big old cat-robot thing. Looks a bit familiar. Any thoughts, Yantilee?”

Yantilee shifted slightly, tail rasping over the decking as he (or perhaps _she_ at the moment, he hadn't looked recently) craned his long neck around for a better look at the screens. “Lion,” he murmured in an oddly androgynous voice. “Saw it on the newsnets, while we were visiting Port Kelsa. That's one of the things that the Emperor sheds his scales over, he wants it so bad.”

The orange fellow perked up. “Does he? Maybe a bounty on it, then?”

“Yeah,” Yantilee held up a warning hand that was larger than his companion's head, ears included. “Galra bounty, Kezz. The bigger the bounty, the less liable they are to pay out. 'Specially if what brings it in ain't Galra. Double-'specially if what brings it in has a bounty of his own on his head.”

Haswick fluffed up his bristles nervously, revealing the rows of pink biolights beneath. “Could get Ronok to do it. He hasn't a bounty on him.”

“Ronok says he's dead and likes it that way,” Yantilee disagreed. “Galra don't waste good money on the dead, anyway. Might go down there and pick it up. Got enough room in the hold for it.”

There was a soft chorus of sighs and grumbles about that. Their ship was an old Sikkhoran Grand Freighter left over from the last big war they'd fought against the Opuli: huge, roomy, well-armed, and steered like a bathtub on roller skates. The fact that the hold was more often empty than full was a frequent source of discontent among the pirates, most of whom felt that their Captain had his head (not his current head, one of the previous ones) firmly wedged up his primary ventral orifice. Still, he was the only Captain they had, and nobody really felt themselves up to the task of doing his job. A little something, even as something as awkward as a Lion, would be a welcome addition, and it would sweeten the Captain's temper to the point where he wasn't threatening to feed everyone to his pet Gantar all the time.

“Think, maybe, that the pilot's still alive?” Kezz asked.

Yantilee shrugged both sets of shoulders. “Might be, might not. If so, good. It'll give Doc a reason to sober up for once. If not, hey, strip the corpse and feed the Gantar. No sense in wasting anything. I'll take the big freight shuttle. Give me a little help with the hauler-drone, Haswick?”

“Sure thing,” Haswick replied, unlooping his caterpillar-like body from the navigator's seat.

The trip down to the moonlet was uneventful, although the Lion, sprawled awkwardly on its side though it was, was a most impressive sight. “Good thing I took the big shuttle,” Yantilee observed. “Just bring the drone over here, Haswick, and—whoops.”

The Lion's jaws creaked open, revealing a cockpit with a single, small figure lying limply in the seat. Yantilee, who had seen this sort of thing before at other crash sites, didn't flinch, but ran a pocket scanner over the unconscious pilot. Haswick trundled up for a look. “Meh. Another upright biped.”

“We can't all be twenty-footed,” Yantilee said mildly. “Your lot called dibs on the whole bin when the Creator of All was handing out body parts, so the rest of us have to make do with what was left. Still alive, this one, but not well. Good enough. We ain't had a scut since Cap'n spaced the last one for stealing his squails.”

Yantilee put the scanner away and lifted the pilot out, turning away to lodge the small person in the shuttle for safekeeping. He hadn't gone more than ten yards or so away when he heard a peculiar grating sound, along with a squeal of terror from Haswick. Looking back, he saw the enormous robot heave itself to its feet, its yellow optics focused upon him. Yantilee paused, watching the beast for a long moment, and then continued onward. He had considerable experience with peculiar weapons of war, and he knew a valuable thing: if a semiautonomous war machine wanted you dead, it wouldn't hesitate. He was still alive, therefore it did not want him dead. “Haswick, stop  _eest_ ing your  _ploos_ and get back aboard. This thing'll follow along.”

“You sure?” Haswick quavered.

Yantilee eyed the Lion appraisingly. “Bonded pilot in distress. If the legends ain't all a pile of plurf poop, these things are a bit like the old Chank-Dhroon Symbiomechs. It'll come. Let's get back to the  _Osric's Quandary_ before the Cap'n wakes up.”

The Lion did indeed follow, rising alongside the freight shuttle and keeping pace easily as they headed back to the ship. It followed them readily enough into the docking hangar, but it seemed determined to follow them to the sick bay. “You can't fit through here,” Yantilee told it sternly. “Stay put, Green, we're just taking your pilot in for a checkup.”

The Lion sank down onto its haunches with a mechanical growl and watched them go. “Might be more trouble than it's worth,” Haswick muttered.

“Sign up the pilot, sign up the Lion,” Yantilee said calmly. “Even if they leave, they'll still remember that we helped.”

“Captain's not going to like it.”

“Cap'n can kiss my tail.”

It was a short walk to the sick bay, a large but cluttered room that smelled harshly of the medic's preferred hooch. The medic himself lay sprawled on one of the exam tables, snoring. Yantilee sighed and picked him up by his stained shirt and shook him hard, and was rewarded with a gurgle and a series of indignant squawks. “Wake up, Doc, we've got a new one for you to look over. Into the 'fresher with you.”

Yantilee shoved the protesting medic into the 'fresher tube and set it for full sobriety. Best thing he'd found on that Inaptok cruiser, he reflected. Worked a treat, and didn't take hardly any time at all. After a few minutes, Doc stumbled out of the big upright tube, sparkling-clean, sober, and very annoyed. “I worked hard on that drunk,” he said peevishly, “three quarts of distilled horath, cut with vuslin to stretch. I don't get much vuslin, you know.”

“Mostly 'cause it makes whoever drinks it smell like rotting melons,” Yantilee said unsympathetically. “Now fire up the omniscanner and have a look at this.”

Doc humphed, cleared off a nearby exam table, and pressed a few buttons; the omniscanner whined over on its ceiling tracks and beeped agreeably. “Let's see it, then.”

Yantilee laid the pilot out on the table, and Doc drew the humming machine over. “Huh,” he muttered. “That's not its natural integument. That's armor, and it's blocking the scanner. Shuck it out of that, if you would.”

They managed to get the helmet off without trouble, but the rest of the suit gave them some difficulty before Haswick found the catches. They laid that aside and got their first good look at their newest acquisition.

“It's awfully pink, isn't it?” Haswick observed. “And little.”

“Can't be helped,” Doc murmured absently, staring at the screens. “Hmm. Carbon-based lifeform, and an oxygen burner. Iron-hemoglobin circulatory fluid, calcium-based bones. Omnivorous, to judge by the teeth. Definitely a mammal. See? Endothermic, hairy in spots, mammary glands... ah, and she's a female. Young, too. There's the uterus, and two ovaries.”

“ _Two_ ovaries?” Haswick asked.

“ _Only_ two ovaries?” Yantilee said.

Doc snorted. “Takes all kinds. Interesting. Not all that different from Galra, actually.”

“Not purple enough,” Haswick observed.

“Got no fur, got no scales, got no fangs or fuzzy tails,” Yantilee said with a smile. “So, what is she?”

“Got me,” Doc said. “She doesn't match up with anything on my files. If the Captain decides to keep her, I'll have to keep an eye on her health.”

“Speaking of which, what's wrong with her?” Haswick asked.

“This and that,” Doc's long fingers traced the image on the screen. “Couple of cracked bones. Concussion. Various strained muscles and tendons. Fungal infection starting up between the toes of the left foot. Undernourished, too. Occupational myopia. Blood full of odd toxins. Some odd activity in the brain. A day or two in the healpod should do it, although the eyes'll need further work. Not sure about the brain, either. Mental injuries are tricky. Might come out a bit weird.”

Yantilee scratched reflectively at his—oops— _her_ tail. “On this ship? Who'll notice?”

 

Keith came awake with glacial slowness, and he wished that he hadn't. His body felt like the leaded glass flower vase he'd seen once in an antique shop; chipped, fragile, and far heavier than it looked. And full of something unpleasant, he thought, like decomposing ghost peppers. He tried to move, but gave up when the shooting pains in his joints told him that this was a bad idea. It was much like that one time in high school, when one of his classmates had come back from a family trip to Australia and had brought back a strain of 'flu that had completely ignored the standard vaccinations. He felt ice cold and uncomfortably hot at the same time, his skin was as raw and sensitive as his throat, his stomach felt like a forest looked after a really serious fire, and someone was trying to drill holes in his skull with a rusty spork. From the inside. Worse, his perceptions weren't working right. His eyes, when he tried opening them, stung as though his eyeballs had been replaced with hot curried marbles, and his vision was blurry. His hearing was fuzzy and dim, and his usually acute sense of smell wasn't working at all. Worst of all, he could not sense his Lion or his teammates clearly, save that one them—and her Lion—were simply not there. The loss of them was like an open wound, and he sobbed for the pain of it.

Cool fingers stroked his cheek gently, and he leaned into that caress; something thin slid between his teeth, and a beloved voice murmured, “Drink.”

He complied and sucked on the straw, and was rewarded with a mouthful of liquid, tepid and sweet. Too sweet, really, but it soothed the inflamed tissues of his throat and settled his stomach. To his intense relief, the ache in his head began to ease off as well, leaving a sort of watery lassitude in its wake. Looking up, he saw the slightly blurry form of his mother beside him, her golden eyes worried. He wanted to speak, to reassure her, to thank her for being there, to ask her what had happened, but he couldn't move.

“He's conscious?” A slightly muffled-sounding voice that Keith was able to identify as Kolanth's after a moment's thought asked.

“Enough to understand me, and respond,” Zaianne said, rubbing the velvety back of her hand over Keith's cheek again. “I will allow myself to be encouraged. Are you sure that there is nothing more that we can do than this?”

“'Fraid not,” Coran's unmistakable accent came glumly from somewhere else in the room. “The medical pods in the infirmary simply don't know how to handle hexes like this, and Modhri says that the dragons have already done what they can. They should recover fully, but they won't do so anytime soon. That little bit of a scratch that Shiro took was pretty bad, yeah, but this is something else again.”

“It certainly is.” That was Modhri, and he sounded as though he hadn't been able to sleep for a week. “Frankly, I'm surprised that all of them survived.”

“Not all of them might have,” Kolanth said grimly, “we have no idea of Pidge's status.”

“She's not dead,” Modhri said quietly. “We'd know it. Even if the other Paladins couldn't feel it, the Lions could, and they would react.”

Coran hummed thoughtfully. “You may be right. Those big lads do mourn their Paladins when they fall, especially when the bond's gotten good and strong. My father told me once that the original green Paladin had gotten so close to her Lion that they were nearly one personality in two bodies. Wonderful woman, absolutely fearless and a crack pilot besides, but she lacked caution. When she didn't come back from a reconnaissance mission, the green Lion uttered a shriek that broke every window in the Castle, and the other lions roared right along with it! Deafened everybody in the area. Took over a month to find a replacement that the Lion would accept, too. You look like you need a month's downtime as well, man.”

“Perhaps, but I'm not going to get it,” Modhri said wearily. “Not until Lizenne's out of the pod.”

Zaianne hummed uneasily. “A third cycle?”

“Stopping that hex took everything that she had, and then some. I can't sleep when she's hurt. I have this terrible fear that she'll die unless I watch over her. She's told me that the feeling is mutual. Perhaps a little irrational of me, but...”

“I find it entirely natural,” Zaianne said firmly, “and understand in full. Have you any idea of what they were hit with?”

Keith heard Modhri sit down heavily on something. “A poison of some sort. Beyond that, I can't say. Our histories and legends are full of evil witches who could curse people with malaise like this, but this is the first time that I've ever encountered the real thing. You'd know more than I would, Zaianne.”

“Not really.” Zaianne's warm palm rested on Keith's forehead, and he was deeply comforted by it. “My mother was quite disappointed by my lack of strong talent and didn't bother to have me tutored fully. She had other girls that were more worthy of her time and expense, you see. Even so, none of my sisters or cousins were taught that sort of thing, nor were any of the other girls that I knew. Have the dragons anything to say?”

Modhri snorted. “They say _gronk,_ mostly. They've done all that they can, I think. They're not happy about it either. Have you had any luck finding Pidge?”

“No,” Kolanth said heavily. “The readings from the ship's instruments were too muddled to wring coherence from, and there has been no word of her Lion from any of our sources. All we can do now is wait and watch.”

_Wait and watch._ Keith let that thought swirl around in the murky pool of his mind.  _Patience yields focus._

As if in answer, he felt the Lion-bond tremble within him, and a dim flare of gold lit up in his mind. Almost immediately after that, he heard a loud, sour belch and a heartfelt groan from nearby, followed by the regrettably familiar sound of Hunk being sick into a bucket. There was a faint commotion of hurrying feet and a murmur of, “Nice catch, Coran,” followed by more moaning from Hunk.

Coran grunted in distaste. “Not the first time that I've had to do this, although it was usually hangovers that I was dealing with at the time. Alfor did love his numvill, and sometimes overindulged. Come on lad, have a sip of this, it'll settle that down... good fellow. There, that's better, isn't it? We'll have you up and running around the kitchen again in no time at all.”

There was an inarticulate gurgle from Hunk that sounded vaguely insulting.

A few minutes later, Keith felt a surge of blue as Lance regained consciousness, although he was even more foully ill than Hunk was. Allura joined them in a soft bloom of rose a little time after that, although there was nothing soft about her voice when she complained of the pains in her stomach. Still limp and passive, Keith strained his inner senses for any sign that Pidge might be responding as well. It was exhausting, but just before he fell asleep again, he felt the unmistakable spark of green, a very long way away.

 

She came awake with a gasp and a groan, head splitting and belly on fire. She retched, spitting bile only; there wasn't anything in her stomach and hadn't been for some time. Cold air whooshed over her as something above her swept aside, and she stared in shock and horror at something dreadful that loomed too close. With a scream of pure primate outrage, she lashed out with a fist. The nightmare thing ducked back out of the way, and she fell to the floor in a gasping heap.

“Well, that worked,” a nearby voice remarked conversationally.

She blinked at this, struggling to understand sounds that were both familiar and unfamiliar. Enormous hands—four of them—descended from above and grasped her quite gently, lifting her to her feet. The nightmare thing—a slightly blurry, yellow-green, round-bellied creature with overlong arms and far too many eyes clustered at the end of long stalks, cast the owner of the hands a dirty look. “Yeah, mostly. Fixed up the injuries and leached off the poisons just fine, though that extra cycle's coming out of your pocket, pal, but the eye and cortex problems are still present. Can't be helped. If I had a better healpod, maybe I could do something more, but that's it.”

“I'm pretty sure you've got an eye lab in here somewhere,” the unseen owner of the huge hands commented mildly. “Try the helmet visor. If she hasn't had her eyes straightened out before now, the lenses will be correctional. It don't do to pilot half-blind.”

“You'll owe me a jug of best horath for this, Yantilee,” the yellow-green thing turned away, disappearing into blurriness.

The girl looked up, seeing something towering above her, sand-colored and spiky with a wide streak of glittering blue down its throat. Something about the colors and the spikes was comforting, and she relaxed a little and turned her attention back to the other creature, who was muttering grumpily as it sifted through other blurs.

“What's your name, girl, if it can be told?” the mild voice from above asked quietly.

The girl opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't. She had no answer to give. “I don't know,” she whispered, and was surprised at the unfamiliar sound of her own voice.

The big creature sighed, and one enormous hand patted her shoulder, which only had room for two of the big fingers. “Remember anything else, then? How about that great green cat that brought you here?”

The girl whimpered; she could remember nothing, nothing at all. “No.”

“Doc, we've got an amnesiac here,” the big one said, sounding a little annoyed, although this didn't seem to impress the other creature much.

“With the damage she took? Be glad that she's not a drooling vegetable. You're right about the lenses, at least. I think I've got some spare blanks and can make a frame that'll fit.” More rustling and the occasional clank came from across the room. “Yeah, these are about the right size. They'll make her look like an Ultavan mystic, but she'll be able to see. Once I get this done, you'll want to run her by Ronok. She needs feeding up, and he needs someone who isn't tired of his cooking yet.”

Whirring noises issued from the blurriness. “Who are you?” the girl asked. “Where am I?”

“I'm Yantilee,” the big one rumbled, letting go of her arms and shaking her hand between a huge thumb and forefinger. “Former mercenary sergeant, though I've held other ranks than that. Several different ones on the same day, once, which convinced me to find other work. That fellow over there goes by 'Doc', which is just as well 'cause nobody can pronounce his proper name. Since you ain't got one right now, we'll call you 'Varda'. It's a decent enough moniker and you can change it later if you feel like it.”

The big one—Yantilee—took a step back and hunkered down, bringing a large, broad head with three big dark-brown eyes close enough to her own to see clearly. “You're currently aboard the not-terribly-good ship  _Osric's Quandary,_ which happens to be a pirate craft. We attack other ships and steal their stuff, in case you were wondering, and no, the law-abiding citizens of the universe don't like us much. We picked you and your giant cat robot up off of a rogue moonlet a few days ago. You'll be staying with us for a while, as you've nowhere else to go. Cap'n's a creep and will make you work hard for your bed and board, but stick close to me and you'll do all right. Think you can bear that?”

“I... guess?” The girl—Varda—said, and then blinked as something hooked around behind her ears and dropped down lightly onto the bridge of her nose. She went briefly cross-eyed as the blurriness disappeared, rendering every detail sharp and clear.

“That should do it,” Doc said, “they're even a decent fit. Find her something decent to wear, and then take her to see Ronok.”

“Sure thing, Doc,” Yantilee said, straightening up and taking Varda's hand. “Come on, girl, let's go and get you clad and fed.”

Varda looked down at herself and saw that she was wearing a sort of bodysuit of fine, thin fabric; it might have covered everything but head, hands, and feet, but it left nothing to the imagination. Doc, she noticed, was wearing a stained pale-blue shirt and trousers, and Yantilee... Yantilee took a lot of looking at. The big alien seemed to be made mostly of shoulders. Three sets, strung along a backbone as thick and heavy as an anchor chain, with four massive arms and a pair of legs that missed being a third set of arms only because they had knees instead of elbows. There was a long sinewy tail, a long sinewy neck, both plated with leathery scales, and three rows of modest spikes that ran from crown to tail tip. The line of glittering blue down his throat was actually a ridge of fine, iridescent feathers. As a result of the dorsal spines, the back of his clothing—sort of a vestlike garment and loose shorts with many pockets—were a mesh of steel rings that fit over the spikes. He also wore a wide belt with several pouches and a quartet of holstered objects that might have been weapons.

Yantilee led her into a smaller, very cluttered room and pried open a large crate. “Let's see... upright biped, small, medium-length arms and legs... only two arms. Hmm. Do your people have any modesty taboos, Varda?”

“I don't know,” Varda replied, shifting uneasily. “Not naked?”

Yantilee snorted. “Ain't all that many who do go around sky-clad. Try this shirt. It'll be a bit short in the sleeve and loose, but that's no bad thing.”

It was loose and the sleeves barely reached past her elbows, but it was warm and colored a very pleasing dark green. “It's nice.”

“Good,” Yantilee said, prying the lid off of a different crate. “Trews, now, that's a little trickier. So much happens below the belt that fashion and tailoring drones can barely keep up. Footwear's even worse, 'cause feet are shaped funny the universe over, and everyone's are different. Yeah. Everything in here that's shaped right is too big or too small, which I think may be mandatory for off-the-shelf stuff. One of my semi-uncles used to make his own, since he could never find a pair that fit. Ah. Here's a skirt with a drawstring, which'll have to do until we can get a new tailor-mech. Going to have to go barefoot for the same reason, sorry about that.”

Varda pulled on the skirt and tied the drawstring. “What happened to the one you had?”

There was an amused snort from above. “There are too many folks from too many different races on this ship, and most of them have all the fashion sense of a hermit twisk. It self-terminated out of sheer frustration. Told 'em to take the industrial model or even the theatrical one, but no, the guys would go for the high-end designer-class machine. Those things don't swashbuckle worth a damn. All right, let's go introduce you to the most important man on board.”

“The Captain?” Varda asked nervously.

“The cook. Cap'n's come and go, but a good cook is worth fighting to keep.”

Varda was then led down a long, cavernous hall into a dim cave of a room that smelled of things that made Varda's empty belly growl. There were tables scattered around it and several variations on the theme of “chair”, and a big half-circular counter lined haphazardly with stools was shoved up against the back wall. Behind the counter was a tall, spare individual with pupilless yellow eyes and purple fur so pale that it was nearly white. Varda stopped dead, staring at the alien with deep distrust.

“Something wrong?” Yantilee asked.

Varda shuddered. “I don't like him. He's... he's... I don't know! I don't like him.”

Yantilee looked back and forth between them a few times, then put two and two together. “Ah. He's Galra, you mean. You aren't alone, girl. A lot of folks don't like Galra. This one's okay, though. He's officially dead, so he says that he doesn't really count as one. Makes a good sausage, too.”

Varda considered that; helping her decision along was the fact that the word “sausage” sounded really good for some reason. “All right.”

The Galra had been watching them with cynical amusement, and smiled thinly as they approached. He was old, Varda noticed, the lavender streaks in his fur were grayish and his face was deeply lined, his eyes a very pale yellow. “Yantilee,” he said in a dry murmur, his pale eyes gazing appraisingly at Varda. “Haswick said that you'd picked up a new one. A bit odd, eh?”

“We don't do normal around here,” Yantilee replied easily and handed him a data chip. “This is Varda, and here's Doc's list of what she can and can't metabolize. Go easy on her, old man, her memory's been shut down.”

The Galra took the chip and activated it, examined the screen for a long moment, and nodded. “Hmm. Well, for an exotic, she'll be easy enough to feed. Has she had anything recently?”

“Not since before we brought her here, Ronok,” Yantilee replied. “She's spent six days in the healpod. Bad landing on top of being poisoned.”

The cook made a disapproving clicking noise. “We'll start you off simple, then, Miss. Here--” he pulled a tall glass from a chute and filled it with water. “--drink. Back in a moment.”

Varda took a sip, which turned into a gulp. She was suddenly parched, and had emptied the glass by the time that Ronok returned with a small bowl of something mushy and green that smelled like heaven. It tasted like heaven too, and he watched her carefully while she devoured it, then refilled her glass and added a small plate of purple squares. This was followed by five small brown fried cylinders, a bowl of translucent blue ovals, a dish of steamed pink things, and a sweet muffin. Ronok smiled to see her slowing down long enough to enjoy the actual flavors. “Good appetite. That's always encouraging in a poisoning victim. Feel a bit better now, Miss?”

Varda burped. “Yes,” she said, “my headache's gone, but I'm still hungry.”

Ronok nodded. “I've a little ghrembak stew left from yesterday, and some hantic tea. Rare stuff, hantic. Comes from a wild world, and those who go to pick some get chased around by big things with teeth a lot. Stuff refuses to be cultivated anywhere else, too. Give me a minute.”

The bowl and cup set before her both smelled appetizing, and oddly enough, familiar. She'd tasted these things before, and remembered, dimly, that they were good. The stew filled in the corners well, and the tea was refreshing and made her feel relaxed. Ronok was watching her with considerable interest, and that felt familiar as well. “Yantilee said that you were dead. You don't look dead.”

Ronok shot Yantilee a hard look, but when he spoke, his voice was kind. “Yes, I breathe pretty well for a corpse, don't I? I used to work on a battleship, Miss, making sure the proud soldiers of the great Galra Empire stayed fed and healthy. Miserable, thankless job though it was, it was better than staying at home and being bullied by my uncles. They didn't think that cooking was a proper occupation, but it's the only thing that I'm good at. I went into the Commissary Corps to be quit of them. Did okay for a long time, and then the ship got a new Captain. Big name, small talent. We ran afoul of a Gantarash fleet and lost.”

Varda frowned. The word “Gantarash” was familiar as well, and she didn't like the sound of it. “They're bad, right?”

“The worst. They eat whoever they catch. You'll see that for yourself soon enough.” Ronok glared down at the counter. “Not me, though. I was already too old and stringy for their tastes, and they sold me to a Rhandinar slaver for cheap. There are folks out there who like owning Galra, no matter how old and stringy they are. I got rescued only a few weeks later—the slavery ring got busted up by an Imperial task force—but it was already too late for me. My family'd declared me dead and had collected my effects, and on Simadht it's a lot harder to prove that you're alive than otherwise once your kin have turned you off. I found work offworld, and eventually joined up with the merry crew here. I like it well enough; I'm never bored, and no matter how badly I screw up a recipe, somebody's bound to like it. Want another sausage? Those came out properly this morning, at least.”

Varda passed him her fork, and he speared another fried cylinder with it and handed it back. She paused before eating it, and stared at her hand.

“Something wrong, Miss?” Ronok asked.

Varda flexed her fingers. “I had scales, once. And big claws. And someone gave me sausages.”

Yantilee and Ronok looked at her delicate, scaleless and clawless hand.

“Maybe your kind undergo metamorphosis?” Yantilee asked.

Varda groaned. “I don't know!”

“Don't force it,” Ronok said with a sympathetic look. “Lost memories'll stay lost, or they'll dribble back bit by bit, or they'll come back all at once. It needs the right sort of triggers, is all. A sound, a smell, a word, a familiar face. One of my brothers wrecked his landspeeder once, and spent the next three years being unable to remember who he was. Then someone handed him a book he'd liked as a cub, and that unlocked everything. Eat your sausage, Miss, and then you'll need a good sleep. Captain'll want to see you in the morning, and you'll want to be rested for that.”

Yantilee grunted. “Been at you, has he?”

Ronok shrugged. “I'm an easier target than you are, Yantilee. He's seen the Lion already, and asked me some questions about it. Tricky piece of hardware, isn't it? If Varda here is the key to that thing, he is definitely going to want to keep her around.”

“What?” Varda asked. “I have a Lion? What's a Lion?”

Yantilee gazed thoughtfully into space for a moment. “Finish up there, and I'll show you.”

Varda ate the sausage, thanked Ronok for her breakfast, and followed Yantilee down more huge hallways. When she asked about that, Yantilee explained that the people who had built the ship were not only very large but liked a lot of room to move around in. The docking hold was even larger and had its own selection of shuttles, fighter craft, and pods... and one very large robot cat.

“She's huge!” Varda said breathlessly. “Is she really mine?”

The Lion's optics lit up a bright lambent gold at the sound of her voice, and the great cephalon turned to face her with a deep mechanical rumble. Varda felt no fear; this was a friend, the best friend she could ever have, and she knew that truth right down to her bones. A cool green murmur that sounded like leaves blowing in the wind whispered in her mind, a friendly greeting that she trusted instinctively. It echoed strangely, though, as if it sounded in a place where a great many things had been lost.

Yantilee rested one upper hand on the Lion's paw. “We found you in its cockpit, and it followed right along when we brought you back. Since none of the techs have been able to get it to respond to them, I'd say that it's yours. Grand old thing, isn't it? Paint needs touching up, but it's in first-class shape otherwise. There are supposed to be five of these, and the Emperor wants them. He's particularly intent on getting his hands on the black one, so you don't have to worry too much.”

For some reason, that made Varda very angry, and the leaf-rustle voice snarled right along with her. “He can't have her. She's mine! He can't have any of them!”

Yantilee smiled sadly. “That's the spirit. The Emperor's a bigger pirate than anyone on this ship, anyway. He's spent a lot of time stealing big chunks of the universe, and already has more stuff than anyone could possibly use. Most Galra are greedy bastards, make no mistake, and he's the worst of them.”

Yantilee's words struck a chord somewhere deep inside Varda's mind, and she laid hold of a huge claw possessively. _“Mine._ Nobody else can have her.”

“I'm sure that it feels the same way about you,” Yantilee said, looking up at the great feline cephalon. “Come on, it's late and we both need sleep. I've fixed you up a nest in my cabin so that the guys won't get silly ideas.”

Varda looked as though she might dispute that, but yawned enormously and sagged against the Lion's paw. Yantilee picked her up as easily as if she'd been a kitten and carried her away.

 

“Thank you,” Allura said, accepting the cup of steaming tea, although her words were an automatic pleasantry; the entire team was heartily sick of nectar-sweetened hantic. She would drink it, however. The dragons were not in the habit of taking “no” for an answer.

Several days had passed since their disastrous attempt on Shomakti Station, exactly how many, Allura wasn't sure. Every one of those days had been an exercise in utter misery as their bodies cleared themselves of the worst of the poison, and they still hadn't quite finished that process yet. The simple acts of getting up, clean, and dressed had been exhausting for all of them, and Allura was frankly shocked at the aftereffects. All of them looked like poster children for a disaster-relief charity. Keith was gaunt and pale, Lance was downright bony and his skin nearly transparent, shoulders bent under the weight of his misery; he still felt horribly guilty for his inability to rescue Pidge. Even Hunk was sadly reduced and in very poor color—his stomach had been so badly upset over the last few days that there was hardly any of it left. Allura had no doubt that she was equally haggard-looking; indeed, her knuckles and wristbones stood out like an old woman's, and she hadn't had the courage to look in a mirror. All of them had felt too horrible to keep anything down except for the sweetened hantic tea, which their caretakers pressed on them almost constantly. It was working; it might put them all off sweets for good, but it was working. Even so, doing anything other than lying wrapped up warm in bed was a terrible effort.

The only reason why they had all gathered in the Castle's main lounge was because Lizenne had finally recovered enough to speak, although she looked even more dreadful than they did. The effort of stopping Haggar's curse before it could hit the Castle had taken the meat from her bones and nearly the marrow as well. That had been essential, for all that it had nearly killed her—if the wormhole had collapsed, it was possible that none of them would have survived. Modhri sat at her feet as he did whenever he was feeling upset, his head resting against her leg and his golden eyes sad.

“What can you tell us of what happened, Lizenne?” Zaianne asked quietly, making the Paladins look up.

Lizenne sipped at her own tea, wrinkling her nose at the oversweet flavor of sintra nectar. “That miserable, _nikvorak-_ hugging _vapbalamuk-tashlop-surla_ must have been taking Quintessence,” Lizenne said in a thin voice. “I've never had to block a spell that strong, and I wasn't entirely successful. We're probably going to have to replace the _Chimera's_ AI as it is. That curse was designed specifically to affect both Lion and Paladin, and it was aimed directly at Pidge. Haggar meant to destroy her.”

“Her? Why her?” Lance asked, his voice still a little hoarse. “Zarkon's been totally fixated on getting the black Lion all along, so she should've been firing at the Princess.”

“Haggar is not Zarkon, and does not share his obsessions.” Lizenne rubbed at her eyes wearily. “She can't, not with an Empire to run and her Lord to protect. Right now, Pidge is the greatest threat of the lot of us.”

“The military might of the Empire is based largely upon drones and AI's,” Kolanth said, “if the Empire loses those--”

“Then the Empire's grip on its subject peoples is weakened.” Lizenne said softly. “Perhaps enough to be broken. If enough of those subject peoples break free and ally themselves with Voltron, the Empire will be shattered, its might scattered to the winds and its people made vulnerable to the wrath of their erstwhile victims. And all because one little girl has an amazing talent with computers. Given enough time, she would have cracked the new defenses. Fortunately, Haggar miscalculated.”

“How?” Hunk asked. “She couldn't get through to that fort's AI, and that double-whammy we got really did a number on us. I feel like roadkill, and you look like roadkill. Sorry, but it's true.”

Lizenne smiled. “Don't I just? Trust me, I feel no better than you do. Nevertheless, Haggar did not cast that spell quite right. If she had, Pidge would now be a mindless pile of living meat awaiting transformation into a Druid or a Robeast, her Lion would be in the possession of the Empire, and we would be dead. The Lions are mighty protectors, and you all have been busily strengthening your bonds with them and each other of late. That was what saved you. Had those bonds been any weaker, you would have perished.”

“So, we sort of... shared the load?” Keith asked.

Lizenne nodded, and winced. She still had a slight but persistent headache. “Yes. The spell that hit Pidge was intended to disrupt the bonds between herself, those of her team, and disable the Lion into the bargain. It was also meant to weaken her body, destroy all conscious thought, wipe her memory, and set powerful controls in her that would have turned her into Haggar's puppet. She would have looked like Pidge and sounded like Pidge, but she would have been dead in truth... and yet still have been able to manipulate machines. Possibly even the Lions. What a wonderful tool she would have made.”

Allura made an inarticulate sound of pure revulsion. “Don't even suggest that!”

“Nonetheless, it is true. You may congratulate yourselves in that you forced the spell along a different path, however. When the spell hit her Lion, it arced over and hit Lance--”

Lance raised a hand. “It didn't. I panicked when I felt it hit her, and I sort of... I tried to pull it off of her. I don't think that I did it right.”

Everyone stared at him in amazement, and Lizenne gave him a long, considering look. “Is that so? Interesting. Nonetheless, it had some portion of the desired effect. As horrible as the effects might feel, Lance, it was probably the only thing that you could have done. All of you absorbed enough of that spell to mitigate the effects somewhat, and weakened it enough so that I could block it from hitting the Castle without actually exploding. Lance, take heart; you have saved Pidge's life after all by deflecting the killing strike. You certainly saved me, your teammates, Modhri, and everybody aboard the Castle. Well done.”

Lance perked up a little, but sagged again. “She's still lost out there, though. She'll be sick, maybe hurt, and all alone. Maybe she's been taken prisoner, or put in a zoo, or... or frozen in carbonite or something!”

“Calm down,” Modhri murmured, reaching over and patting his knee. “Her Lion will look after her. They have grown close, as have all of you with yours, and it will not give her up easily. It is a most intelligent beast. You may also check on her through your own bond, I expect.”

“I've tried,” Keith said grimly. “I can't get anything, except another headache. Can you scry for her, Lizenne?”

Lizenne snorted. “No. Soluk has decreed that I must not even think about magic at all for the next three months at least. I do not argue with the dragons. If she is to be found, then you must do it. All together, sharing your strength and the strength of the Lions. I cannot help you this time.”

“I will lend you strength, if I can,” Kolanth said, “I refuse to be useless in this. Can the Princess draw power from me?”

Allura's head snapped up in surprise, and she stared at him in mild horror. Lizenne merely frowned. “In theory, I believe that a Perfect Mirror may draw strength from whomever might offer it. It is not wise, however, and might easily lay you low for weeks, or even kill you. Coran would run that same risk. Zaianne, who has some small magical talent, would be a safer source. Or, if she were to ask them very nicely, the dragons. I am sorry, Kolanth, but I'd swat you across the nose if I had the strength. You've only barely recovered from bringing us the key. You must not strain that part of yourself.”

The Blade bared his teeth in frustration. “I feel responsible for her loss, too.”

Lizenne smiled. “Keep sifting through the newsnets. It seems trivial, but it's not. One thing that I have noticed about these young heroes is that they tend to do things noisily. If Pidge is able, then she will make herself known. Hah. One way or another.”

 

Varda fidgeted nervously. Yantilee had seen to it that she was clean and had gotten a good breakfast before taking her to meet the master of the ship. Yantilee had also warned her to be on her best behavior; it seemed that Captain Plosser had a filthy temper and a filthier sense of humor. He had no sympathy at all for castaways, no mercy for the wounded, and no pity for the small and weak, the dragonish crewman had told her, as well as the nastiest pet in the cosmos, and she was not to give him any excuse to unleash it upon her.

First, however, they had to find the man. The Captain wasn't on the bridge, nor was he in his quarters, nor in any of the other official spots. Yantilee eventually tracked him down by asking one of the bridge crew, a long bristly blue person with glowing pink spots, to hunt him up on the  _ Quandary's  _ security cams. As it turned out, the Captain was down in a storeroom just off of the docking bay, apparently hassling one of the Quartermaster's assistants, and Yantilee had sighed and led Varda back down to the lower decks. It was a long walk, even with the lifts, and Varda wondered just how large the Sikkhorans actually were. That moment of curiosity vanished when they entered the storeroom, for there was something there that monopolized her attention.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Two smells, actually; the more noticeable was the stink of something like fermenting garbage, a hot, mephitic reek that made Varda struggle to hold onto her breakfast. The second, less intense but sharper, was the thick, somewhat fungal odor of moldy cheese. Both stinks were forgotten when she laid eyes on the scene in front of her; there was a spreading pool of yellow liquid on the floor, and crouching above it was a thing out of nightmares. It was huge, easily twice her height and six times her mass, covered in dark red bristles, and had seven protruding, glossy-black insect eyes that stared with soulless intensity right at her. The eighth eye had been lost to an attack sometime in the past, the empty socket bisected by a long, pale scar that slashed down half the length of its head. It also had a set of insect mandibulae lined with enormous fangs, which were currently working on what was left of someone's arm. It slurped that down with a horrible crunching noise and heaved itself to its feet with a curious gurgle, but it made no move to come closer. Varda stared up at the burly maneater in unabashed horror and loathing. Surely, this thing couldn't be the Captain?

“Maozuh's not going to be happy about that,” Yantilee observed in a calm, level voice that made Varda stare at him in shock. “She says she's shorthanded already, and training men up fresh is a pain.”

“Tostoln was no loss,” a harsh, gravelly voice said with satisfaction. “Sloppy, slow, and inefficient, he was, and skimmed off the best of the stock half the time. My pet was getting hungry, anyway.”

Varda turned and stared at the second person in the room. As large as the bristly red one was, this one wasn't much smaller, and he was just as unpleasant to look at. He was an upright biped and remarkably broad, with a protruding potbelly and a heavily-muscled torso that the loose red shirt and dark trousers he wore didn't bother to conceal. His arms and legs were equally powerful, and when he turned to face them in his armored boots, Varda felt the floorplates tremble underfoot. Despite his obvious strength, his hide was loose and hung in waxy folds, and was a faded blue where it wasn't streaked with orange stripes and old scars. His hands were seven-fingered, coated with small plates of bone, and looked rock-hard. He had one red eye in a similarly bone-plated head that resembled that of an enraged camel; the other eye had been lost and the socket crushed by some dreadful blow. Completing the image of a first-class dubious character was a crest of greasy quills that ran down the back of his long neck to just below his shoulderblades and a wide belt with two well-worn blasters in equally well-worn holsters, and a swagger stick clutched loosely in one hand. The one red eye glowed like an ember as it focused on varda, and the bone-plated face twisted in contempt. “What is that wretched little thing, Yantilee?”

Varda felt a flush of hot anger, and a surge of hatred for this individual. He fed crewmembers to a monster whenever he liked and he called  _ her _ wretched?

Yantilee pushed her into full view with one broad hand. “What she is, even Doc doesn't know. Who she is, even she doesn't know—bad landing wiped her memory, Cap'n. What we do know is that she was piloting the Lion when it showed up. May be of some use.”

Captain Plosser sneered, showing long brown teeth in a hideous grimace of contempt. “Stole it, then, or took it on a joyride with no idea of how to fly the thing. The girl's not big enough to be piloting a war machine.”

Yantilee shrugged. “Took the armor off of her myself, Cap'n. Had injuries and had been poisoned, probably from a fight with the Galra. You know there's a bounty on those cats.”

Plosser barked a harsh laugh. “Yes, and one that's useless to us, since any Galra authority'll take me along with the cat if I go to collect! You'll not be rid of me so easily, Elikonian.  _ Taah.  _ We'll auction the thing off at Muntri's Haven, and someone else can can get chased about by the Imperials for a change. The girl--”

“You can't sell her, she's mine!”

“Eh?” Plosser said, turning his attention back to Varda.

Varda glared defiantly right back, meeting his eye without flinching. “She's mine. You can't sell her. I won't let you!”

Plosser rumbled ominously and lunged, seizing her by the front of her shirt and pulling her up to eye level. She gagged at the overwhelming stink of moldy cheese that wafted off of his hide, but bared her own teeth in defiance. “Yours, girl?” Plosser said, very quietly, “Oh, no. Those that are found and picked up in passing are salvage, and the rightful property of whoever did the picking. As the Captain of this ship, all salvage belongs to me! I can do as I please with that Lion, whether it's to sell it off the block or plant herbs in it, and none may say me nay! Girl, you say that Lion is yours. Will you fly it my service?”

“No!” Varda snapped, “Not for you, you creep! Not ever!”

Plosser's red eye glared dangerously into hers. “You get above yourself, girl. I am Captain, and my word is law on this ship. If you will not serve, then you will not stay.”

Varda kicked at him as hard as she could, one foot even managing to strike a glancing blow on his chest. It hardly rumpled his vest, but he took it poorly nonetheless.

“Girl, you do not strike the Captain. I might have sold you as an exotic pet in the markets on Queshag, or perhaps to a vollock ranch on Tathri. Now, I'd say that you'd do better as the Gantar's dessert, for the beast is always hungry.”

The bristly red creature globbered eagerly, strange fluids dribbling from its yellow-stained mouthparts; it had been licking the unfortunate crewman's blood off of the floor. It reached for her with three-clawed hands. Varda squealed in fear and disgust, and was answered by a shattering bellow of robotic wrath. There was a tremendous impact on a nearby wall, and crates on the shelving wobbled and fell as the heavy bulkhead was punctured and peeled back by four huge metal claws. The Gantar howled in terror and scuttled away, and Plosser dropped Varda and shielded his eyes from the blaze of yellow light that issued from the very large optic that was peering through the hole.

“Bonded pilot, Cap'n,” Yantilee said calmly, “like the Chank-Dhroons. I'm sure I told you that earlier. There's no separating them. It's either keep them both or sell them both, and yon cat won't permit the pilot to come to harm.”

“Then keep them I will!” Plosser snarled angrily, glaring up at the yellow optic. “Even the Symbiomechs fell to the Galra in the end, and I'll not be outdone by those vermin, nor will I be defied on my own ship by an oversized wind-up toy! Keep the girl, you say? Well then.”

Varda had landed badly and wasn't able to dodge when the Captain grabbed for her again, and she felt something hard and heavy being locked around her throat.

“Then keep her we will,” Plosser continued. “She'll serve as ship's scut and work for her keep. As for that thing, it'll stay lashed down in the bay. I'll not have it wandering around loose. Get you gone, Yantilee, and take that filthy little creature with you.”

“Yes, Cap'n,” Yantilee said, picking Varda up off of the floor and backing away, keeping an eye on the Gantar as he did so. “I'll just take her back to the kitchen, right?”

Plosser ignored him, and was already snarling commands into a belt-comm. Yantilee humphed quietly and left the room, setting Varda back on her feet once the doors had hissed shut behind them. “Come on, girl, you get to live today, and that's as much as you can hope for right now.”

Varda yanked at the collar around her neck and looked up imploringly at her huge friend. “What's he going to do with my Lion?”

Yantilee glanced to one side at a crowd of burly crewmen who were rushing in through the bay doors a little way down the hall. “You heard him. The Lion's too great a treasure and too fine a weapon to lose, and you're the key to both. He'll keep it tied down until he's satisfied that you'll do as you're told, or until it finds another pilot.”

“She won't,” Varda said flatly, and heard the green voice in her mind concur.

Yantilee sighed. “Then it's best that we all lie low for a time. Come on, let's go and see if Ronok has anything that needs doing.”

 


	2. Adjustments and Arrangements

Chapter 2: Adjustments And Arrangements

 

Three weeks had passed since she had met the Captain, as the _Osric's Quandary_ measured time. During that period, she had learned a great deal about the service levels of the huge old pirate ship, its crew, and the sheer amount of work it took to keep the first running and the second happy. She certainly knew more about scrubbing dishes and swabbing decks than she had ever wanted to know. Those were not the only lessons the ship and crew had to teach, and one of those was how to avoid being torn apart and devoured. At the moment, Varda was getting another lesson in that, hunkering down behind the beverage dispenser and trying to be invisible. A gross, globbering sound gurgled nearby, and Varda tried to cram herself further behind the machine. The Gantar hadn't given up on her yet, damn the thing. Yantilee had told her that Gantars were actually quite sapient, if indelibly nasty; this one had taken a chop to the head that had cost it not only the eye but most of its higher brain functions. It was little more than an animal, and it did what the Captain said because he fed it... and because it was also wearing a slave collar. The collars had a shock function embedded in them that she'd already felt once, and had no desire to feel again. She was allowed to defend herself, she had been told, although that was tricky against a creature like a Gantar. The thing was horrifyingly strong, far faster than it should have been, and looked, had she been able to make the comparison, like a giant tarantula that liked to impersonate Bigfoot on its days off. There were two hundred and seventy-three people aboard the ship, almost no two alike, and the Gantar took the prize for sheer malevolent ugly.

She felt a cool, quiet feeling in the back of her mind, and a gentle murmur that had nothing to do with words. Varda stopped and listened; Plosser might have chained down her Lion's body, but he could do nothing to silence her mind, and that mind always had something worth learning. She smelled green leaves and soft earth, and focused on that welcome scent. It was certainly better than the ripe reek of the Gantar.

_Gantarash are predators,_ the sure and certain knowledge flowed into her mind like a breeze, _their eyes respond to motion rather than shape recognition, and they rely on their sharp hearing and especially upon their sense of smell to track prey. The best way to throw them off the trail is to stay still and silent and smell of something inedible._

None of this was conveyed in words, but it came with certain instructions; Varda made a few small adjustments to the beverage machine and was rewarded with the Gantar's grunt of confusion. Something smelled incredibly sharp and green all of a sudden, and the Gantar began to sneeze violently. This alerted one of the few people on the ship that the Gantar had learned to respect. Sure enough, Ronok's sharp voice cut through the dim air like a knife.

“Oh, no you don't! Get out of here, you filthy beast! No bloodthirsty monsters allowed in the mess hall, no dining on the other diners, and no eating the kitchen help! Out, I say, out! Get with you, you _helicax_ ing waste of protoplasm!”

There was the beginning of a hungry roar, cut off by a crackle and a sharp yelp. The Gantar retreated whimpering; Varda didn't know how Ronok had acquired the remote for the Gantar's collar and didn't think it wise to ask. Unwilling to tempt his trigger finger, Varda reversed the changes she'd made in the machine and crawled out from behind it. Ronok gestured toward the back of the room. “Scullion duty again, Miss? Get to it, then. There's a plate of metzi wafers in it for you if you can get the oven working again. Kezz dropped an ear into the heating elements—I made him clean that up, but something in there is out of alignment.”

Varda nodded and trotted into the kitchen. Kitchen duty was the one piece of scut work that she didn't mind doing. Ronok was an easy supervisor to please and believed in rewarding good work; since Varda was almost constantly hungry, this was a good thing. Fiddling with the big kitchen appliances was fun, too, even if she had to clean grease off of them every so often, although there was one toaster oven in the back that refused to work properly in the presence of flatbread and never failed to reduce those to blackened, iron-hard discs. One of the other crew members had whispered to her that it was possessed by a demon; that wouldn't have been too bad, except that several of the crewmen feared it, and at least one of them worshiped it. Varda saw it as a challenge, and tinkered with it when she had a few minutes to spare. There was just something about devices that she loved, and the Lion encouraged her in this.

The Lion spoke to her often, offering up information on just about everything, and all of it useful. Whether it was bits and snatches of cultural trivia or suggestions on how to tweak things so that the laundry engine stopped spitting soggy underwear at unsuspecting passersby, she always paid close attention. Especially where it came to the laundry. Some of the crewmen had special needs or put off washing their clothing until it could walk down to the laundry room all by itself. Rh'attz in particular was notorious for his poor personal hygiene. Not surprising, really; his people had no sense of smell and had evolved from a creature whose primary survival trait was to stink unbelievably. She had heard it said that he judged whether or not it was was time to wash his socks by lighting a match and seeing if the flame burned blue. Now, if he would only stop hanging them in the ventilation shafts to dry out...

The oven gave her no trouble—just a misaligned sensor—and she cleaned out the fryer, the syncopol, the big mixer, the floor, and the large and peculiar device used for synthesizing the more exotic foodstuffs with equal dispatch. A glance at the clock told her that she would have ample time to eat her well-earned snack and maybe have a chat with whomever might be feeling peckish. A glance outside rewarded her with more good news. Yantilee was squatting by the counter, as were Haswick and Kezz. Aside from Ronok, they were her favorite crewmates. Haswick could be very funny at times, and Kezz was always willing to help her work off her frustrations after a long day. She washed her hands and joined them, and before long was happily munching her way through a stack of sweet, nutty mezti wafers while the others discussed the day's affairs.

“Is the Captain going to get off his dead butt and get back to work soon?” Ronok asked them at one point, running one hand through his crest of finger-length silver hair. “Lying low until things cool down is all very well and good, but I'm running low on the base pap for the emoktinator, and the pantry's getting sparse. How's our finances, Kezz?”

“Also low. That last raid didn't get us much.” Kezz tugged at his remaining ear thoughtfully. “Vorlenn's already looking for targets on the lesser shipping routes over by Yenux Tetra, but we're going to have to score something big soon or he'll have a ship full of hungry, underpaid crew to deal with. Problem is, that last station we jumped had a Galra bigshot on it—that's why there were so many Sentries all over the place. Empire's added its own bounty to our usual load of wanted posters.”

“Pushy bunch,” Haswick grumbled sourly. “They just don't like having competition. Where do they get off, lording it over the rest of us... oh. Sorry Ronok.”

The elderly Galra waved an indifferent hand. “I don't like 'em much either. I like the idea of facing one of their pirate-hunters even less. Bad things happen to pirates in Imperial hands. Tell Vorlenn to choose his targets with care—no Galra yachts or military craft, all right? A cruiser's bad news, but if we annoy them enough to get the Ghamparva sent after us, we might as well cut our own throats and save them the trouble.”

Varda looked up sharply. For some reason, that word struck a chord in her. “Ghamparva?”

“Terrorist hunters,” Yantilee said, “elite fighters, and extremely nasty ones. Most of the time they don't bother with the likes of us, but when they do, they don't mess around. Why?”

“I've heard it before, from somewhere,” Varda frowned at her wafers. “No. I met one once. He was... they had... he was all tied up. They held him down, and I rubbed him behind the ears.”

The others were staring at her. “No way,” Kezz said bluntly. “Nobody takes those guys captive, they're too dangerous. No self-respecting person would even touch their ears, anyway.”

Ronok humphed. “Tickling his ears wouldn't do you any good, in any case. Only Galra women can charm a man that way, and they don't waste their time on those killers. What were you doing in that bad company?”

Varda groaned as the memory fragment vanished. “I don't know. It was important, but it's gone.”

“But it is trying to come back,” Yantilee said. “Keep at it. You must have led a very interesting life, and I'd like to know more.”

Varda flipped her what might have been a salute. “Yes, sir.”

“Ma'am,” Yantilee corrected, “for the next few hours, at least.”

Varda blinked, and the others chuckled. “Sorry, I thought that you were male.”

“I will be by tomorrow morning,” Yantilee shrugged. “It won't last. My people swap genders about once a week, but I've got a hormonal imbalance that has me switching at random, and at much shorter intervals. It's annoying, but I've learned to live with it. Better finish your snack, girl, they'll be shouting for you in the laundry room any minute—one of the big dryers went down with a crash earlier today, and it's Rh'attz's laundry day.”

Varda groaned, but did as she was told, and scratched at an itch under her collar. “Yantilee,” she said, tugging at that hateful item, “will this thing ever come off?”

“Probably,” Yantilee said. “Cap'n always collars castaways like that at first. If they can make themselves useful around the place for long enough, he figures that they're part of the crew. You're doing well enough. Just keep a low profile and you'll be fine. Most of the crew likes you, and you've already charmed the cook and a few of the senior crew. You might even be allowed to pilot that cat of yours again.”

“Her name is Shechethra,” Varda said, handing Ronok her empty plate. “Oh, and Kezz, just so you don't foul up the oven again...?”

The orange alien smiled and bent down. “Sure, go ahead and even me up. I walked into the stove hood, is all.”

She stood up and slapped him hard across the nose, and the other ear dropped off like a fallen leaf. He nodded his thanks and picked it up, shoving it into a nearby trash bin. Kezz's people grew a new set of ears every morning, and required a sharp smack across the face every evening to knock the old ones off. It was weird, but if it didn't happen, the new ones often got jammed painfully up under the old ones and that could lead to serious bacterial infections. Kezz usually let Varda do the honors, since her little hands were just the right shape and size for a really efficient strike. Varda didn't mind at all, because it allowed her to hit someone without getting yelled at.

“Stand watch with me tonight, Varda?” Haswick asked.

“If you don't mind me falling asleep halfway through,” she replied, stretching out her shoulders; Haswick needed less sleep than she did, but liked having company. She liked the midnight watch on the ship's bridge, anyway. It was always quiet, the pilot's seats were comfy, and the view of the stars was wonderful. “We'll see how tired I am after I've finished with the dryer.”

Ronok tapped the counter with one claw. “I'm marinating the last of the tlenth for frying tonight, and there'll be steamed anuppa with ti'il sauce and sishseed rolls. Shall I make you up a packet, Miss?”

“Oh, please!” Varda beamed at him and trotted out.

Yantilee smiled at Ronok, who was watching her go with a faintly wistful look on his lined face. “Become fond of her, haven't you?”

Ronok chuckled, although his eyes were sad. “She reminds me of my niece. Good kid. Help me keep an eye on her, Yantilee. That one's got more to her than a gift for gadgetry and a big cat.”

“Yes.”

 

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Lizenne scrabbled awkwardly at Hunk's shoulders, then gave it up as a bad idea. “Sorry about that. Did I damage anything?”

“Nope, I'm fine,” Hunk replied a little indistinctly. “Just flat. I can do flat all day. People used to yank on the headband all the time, so that's nothing new.”

“That was before you hit the last round of growth spurts, I assume.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well, since we're stuck here until I can sort out my knees again, I can at the very least do this.”

Lizenne began to scratch his back. Like most Humans, he had difficulty in reaching that spot right between the shoulderblades. Hunk grunted in pleasure as a hundred unnoticed itches were conquered.

“Ooh, yeah, a little to the left... up... up... right _there._ Oh, that feels good.” Hunk sighed happily. “Galra claws for the win. You sure that Modhri won't get mad about this?”

“So long as I stay away from your ears, it's perfectly all right.” Lizenne replied.

It had been difficult for all of them over the last several weeks. Hunk, one of whose main assets was his massive physical strength, did not like having lost so much of it to the poisoning he'd received. Lizenne, who was very proud of her own strength and agility, hated the feeling of weakness even more. They had been engaging in a careful wrestling match until her left knee had buckled unexpectedly while trying to dodge a grapple; she'd grabbed reflexively for his shoulder, missed, and caught the trailing ends of his headband instead. Hunk had braced instinctively, thrusting his weight forward. This had yanked her into colliding heavily with his back and they had both gone over like a tree. Hunk was now flat on his stomach, Lizenne draped over his back, and neither one was much interested in battling the forces of gravity only to have to stand upright. Verticality, they agreed, was vastly overrated.

After a little time, Lance ambled by and found them lying there. “Need help up?”

“Not really,” Hunk replied. “It's nice down here, and she's warm.”

“For all that I've blown my undercoat again, yes,” Lizenne said, patting his head.

Lance leaned down and caught her hand. “Yeah, but as my Mom would say, you could catch your death of cold down there. Come on, let's get you up and—oops!”

Lance hadn't recovered any more than they had. Lizenne's limp weight overbalanced him, and he wound up hitting the floor on his rump, flopped against Hunk's side. “Welcome to the party,” Hunk said with a smile. “Hang around, Lance. I'm feeling lonely for some reason.”

“Okay,” Lance said, letting himself relax. It _was_ nice down here, and it got better when someone with long fingernails started scratching his back.

A little while later, they heard footsteps in the hall outside, and Allura's voice saying, “...I think that they came down here for a little exercise... oh!”

The three on the floor looked up at Keith and the Princess and waved hello. “Hey,” Lance said. “Did you guys want something?”

“Whatever are you doing?” Allura asked over Keith's smothered snort of laughter.

“Floor inspection,” Hunk stated firmly, poking at the decking with one authoritative finger. “Yup, this is definitely a floor. How 'bout you, Lizenne?”

She smiled. “Yes, I must agree with you. That is most demonstrably a floor. Very floor-like indeed. Exemplary in its smoothness and flatness. Lance?”

“I dunno, it seems to be missing something. I mean, it's got a nice monochrome thing going and it's great for sitting around on, but it's just a little... y'know, underpopulated.” He grinned irreverently at them and patted the floor beside him. “Sit down, guys, I want a second opinion. Pull up a chunk of Hunk and relax.”

Allura giggled. “Well, since I can't think of anything better to do, why not? Keith?”

“Hah. Think fast, Keith,” Lance said and grabbed Keith's jacket, yanking him down so he fell against Hunk's rump with a startled _oof!_ Keith twisted around and swatted a hand in Lance's direction, but his heart wasn't in it. He'd tried a little early-morning practice a few hours ago and hadn't recovered yet. “Ow. Just what sort of poison was that, and how long will it take to recover?”

Lizenne sighed. “It's an aetheric toxin, which is why the dragons acted so quickly to remove the hex that was spreading it. Since it essentially dissolves parts of your nervous system along with making you wretchedly ill, be glad that you're still able to move without someone else pulling the strings. I've read of cases where victims were paralyzed for up to a year and a half. Don't worry. We got off very lightly, and I can only guess that the Lions deflected the worst of it from you. I may have to look deeper into that when I'm able. Not now, though. We're on the mend, never fear. Have you been able to find Pidge yet?”

“She's alive, we were able to tell that much,” Lance replied, the relief in his voice almost palpable. “Active, too, so she found help. She's far away, though, _really_ far away, and we couldn't see where. There's something wrong, but it's not slowing her down much.”

“Good. Despite all, we progress.” She chuckled. “In a manner of speaking. I have no desire to move. You're a comfortable fellow to be around, Hunk.”

“All part of the service. It's a good thing that I didn't put my armor on, isn't it?” Hunk growled faintly. “I hate this. Wearing my armor makes me sweat like a pig right now. It didn't used to be that heavy.”

“Count your blessings, Hunk,” Allura admitted, “when I put mine on earlier, the weight of it had me on my knees! That was not a good start.”

“You are not ready for it yet,” Lizenne murmured drowsily. “You must not force yourselves. Rest. Sit here together and rest. Let your strength flow back into you drop by drop, as an aquifer gathers its tithe of rain.”

Modhri found them there some time later, drowsing together on the floor, and he smiled to see them leaning on each other like that. “You look comfortable. Should I get you anything?”

Hunk waved a finger in the air. “Bucket of popcorn. That's the second setting on that nutri-fabber I built into the kitchen. And some blankets and things. This is a nice floor, but it's kind of hard and chilly, and there's not enough of Lizenne to go around. It is okay if we use her as a blanket, right?”

“She'd be the first to tell you if it wasn't. Give me a moment, I'll be right back.”

Modhri wandered off and came back with a large tub of popcorn in one hand and a stack of blankets in the other. He had only just set the bucket down when five hands shot up, grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him down to their level.

“Ooo, all warm and fuzzy,” Allura giggled, clutching at his arm, “was this why you chose him, Lizenne?”

Lizenne vented a low laugh and reached for a blanket. “That was one of the reasons. Not by any means the most important of them, but a happy bonus nonetheless. Do stay for a little time, Modhri.”

Modhri looked down at the hands gripping his shirt and snorted a laugh. “Seeing as how I am so desired, how can I possibly refuse?”

He couldn't, of course, and when Zaianne poked her head in to see where everyone had gone, she was grabbed and incorporated into the pile, too. She didn't really mind. Keith had latched onto her with desperate strength and was out like a light a second later. As if drawn in by some strange force of gravity, Tilla and Soluk found them shortly after that and curled up protectively around the whole group, heads resting on each other's tails. They might have been spiky, but they were wonderfully warm, and it wasn't long before the whole crowd was fast asleep.

When Coran and Kolanth discovered them there an hour or two later, Coran only nodded in satisfaction. “Yes indeed, a polychromatic cuddle convention, just like old times. Another fine old tradition is upheld.”

Kolanth cast him a sidelong look. “What?”

Coran smiled and tugged at his mustache. “It's a long story, and at least in this case they've still got all their clothes on. Come on, old chap, we'll get a cup of something and I'll tell you a few things that the public never knew about the previous Paladins.”

He strode out, leaving Kolanth to stare at his back in confusion before following. Orgies were not something that most Galra were familiar with.

 

Varda snuggled down into the worn pseudoleather of the seat and took another bite of the bansit wrap she was eating, staring out at the stars and letting herself unwind. It had been a very long day. Vorlenn had managed to find the Captain a soft target to attack, a medium-sized Rilkamene trade caravan with only six small fighters guarding it. Varda had not been part of that attack, but she had had to deal with the results. The caravan had been traveling with a full load of goods and comestibles, and all of that had had to be sorted and put away. She never saw the real loot, of course; Ronok had caught her by the collar and had set her to restocking the pantry. She rubbed her neck with a frown of irritation; his hadn't been the only hand to grab that all-too convenient handle this day, and some of them had left bruises. He'd made it up to her, of course, by making sure that her midnight snack was extra-generous. She'd gotten into the habit of sitting the late watches with Kezz and Haswick, and Yantilee often joined them for the company. Yantilee was here already, squatting comfortably on the floorplates and mending his vest; he'd been part of the boarding party, and one of the Rilkas had been carrying a knife.

“...Not a bad haul,” Yantilee was saying, “plenty of necessities and a goodly bit of the high-end stuff as well, probably meant for the Obrio Festival on Varri. Cap'n was a little miffed that they weren't carrying any worthwhile passengers, but he perked up quick enough when he saw the special delivery.”

“Ooh, treasure?” Haswick burbled. “Actual treasure? What sort?”

Yantilee tightened a crimp on one of the vest's rings. “A _chemorax_ gameboard, made from litonai, vobena, and hadargene, with rails of pure platinum and set with blue aubras. The pieces were all carved from solid nitronite and leolas, and not the lab-grown sort, either. Very good workmanship, too.”

Kezz looked up, his expression one of worry. “Uh-oh. That's a tribute gift, guys, probably for the Governor. If the Varrians can't find a decent replacement in time, that tyrant's going to want to know why. We may want to wake up the navigator and get out of here.”

Haswick hissed, fluffing his bristles. “Captain's not going to like leaving this sector, not after taking such a good haul, and we've got a lot of competition in the next few systems. If we butt in, we may trigger a purge.”

Yantilee vented a fluting snort. “There's already one going on up by Gleosk and another by Melchon. Captains Phalnagur, Tchak, and Quannock banded together to raid a rare-metals mining colony, and managed to really upset the local authorities. Triple bounties, and twice again that if the Captains are brought in alive.”

“ _Tushwa,”_ Kezz swore. “We may have to go all the way out to Clorph, or strike out into new territory altogether. I know that being hung at port is the traditional way that a pirate meets his end, but I'll pass, thanks.”

“Why are we pirating at all, if it's that dangerous?” Varda asked curiously.

Yantilee's hands paused in their work, and the other two glanced uneasily at him. “People turn pirate for the same reasons that they turn to any other crime,” Yantilee said, his usually mild voice slow, and oddly neutral. “Some enjoy it, like the Cap'n does. For some, it's all about profit. Some do it because they've got habits that require a lot of money, but make them unable to earn it the legal way. Some just can't fit in at home, and others... others have no choice.”

Varda cocked him a puzzled look. “Oh?”

“It's the Empire, you see,” Haswick said with a cautious look in Yantilee's direction. “It takes up most of the known universe. Whenever the Emperor's forces come across an inhabited world, they conquer it and steal all the best stuff.”

Kezz nodded. “Most of the time, those races will surrender. If they don't, they get destroyed or enslaved. Some take one look at what they're up against and submit without a fight. The Emperor appoints them a Governor, who then lays down a bunch of laws that favor the Galra and leave all the natives as second-class citizens. There's always some resistance, though, and the subject governments are very quick to declare those resistance groups outlaw. Or, you've got survivors from the destroyed planets, who were offworld at the time and who don't have anywhere else to go.”

“Galra're predators,” Yantilee said in that same flat, emotionless tone. “They tend to see others as prey. Prey deserves one chance, and no more than that. If the prey can't make the most of that chance, then they are weak and worthless, and deserve to die out so that others can take their territory and resources. Problem is, Galra are taught to think that they're the worthiest people around, and they get nasty when someone tries to teach them otherwise.”

Varda went cold inside. She _knew_ all of this, but couldn't remember from where. “Ronok's not like that.”

“Ronok learned better the hard way.” Haswick shuffled his coils nervously. “He got taken by Gantars, remember? Only he had to be rescued, and that makes him worthless, too. By Galra thinking, if he were a proper man, he should've been able to beat them, or at least escape from them, or even from the slavers they sold him to. Now his family won't have him, his society won't have him, nor will anyone else but us. I've heard that there are other Galra out there who've seen sense and are trying to help the rest of us, but I've never seen any.”

“They're rare,” Kezz said bleakly. “The Emperor doesn't like them, and has the Ghamparva wipe them out wherever they pop up. They tend to leave marks visible from space when they do that, and no one dares to fight back anymore.”

An image flickered across Varda's mind, just for a second—an image of a dark-clad Galra woman, as pale-furred as Ronok but much younger, and with more than a little of the feral animal in her eyes. She shifted nervously and tried to change the subject a little. “How did you join this ship?”

Kezz smiled, although without much humor. “More or less the same way you did. I used to smuggle weapons to resistance groups before the Imperial forces caught up with them, and they shot me down. Captain Plosser picked me up because he needed another fighter pilot.”

Haswick made a humorous grickling noise. “At least you got some glory first. I got drunk at a portside tavern, and when I woke up, I found that I'd been press-ganged. Several of Plosser's crew had deserted, and he needed someone to run the system scans.”

Yantilee did not reply immediately, but continued with his sewing. The only sign that he'd been paying attention was that the ridge of iridescent feathers down his throat was fluffing up and relaxing in turns, a sure sign that the huge alien was upset about something and taking care not to show it. “I was betrayed, along with my entire outfit. I am the only surviving member of my people outside of my home planet.”

“I'm sorry,” Varda said contritely. “You don't have to--”

One big hand lifted sharply, although he did not look up from his work. “My people had a nice little Collective. Burgeoning homeworld, seven colonies, several allies and subject races of our own. We used to be a major authority in this end of space. I was a member of the Elikonian Space Navy at first, helping to keep the peace and proud to do so. Then the Galra showed up. Their ships weren't much tougher than ours, but there were a lot more of them. Wasn't too long before the Navy—all of the Navies—were crushed. Gave 'em a good fight, though. Galra had to buy off our subject races, scare off our allies, and smash all seven colonies before we gave in. Admiral Zebaloon gathered up what was left of the warships and took us away after the planetary government submitted to the Emperor, hoping to come back later and throw off the oppressors. Until then, though, there were roughly six thousand troops to feed and pay, and so we became mercenaries, fighting for whoever had money and a need to rent a soldier or two. We fought with and for a fair selection of everybody, save the Galra. The Admiral wouldn't work for the Galra if they'd offered him his own weight in Teschan firestones. He'd shoot at 'em, but not for 'em, and we were all in agreement with him about that! We did all right for a while. I made sergeant, at least.”

Yantilee finished his repairs and put his vest back on, carefully aligning the rings over his dorsal spikes. “After a few years on the loose as a roving natural disaster, we got a call from home. There was a faction, we were told, very secret, that was going to assassinate the Governor and free our people, and all they needed was some seasoned military might to pull it off. We would be well-rewarded, they said, and immortalized in the Hall of Heroes for helping out. Admiral didn't like it and checked that offer out as best he could. It looked good. The guy making the offer was who he'd said he was, all right, and the plan looked sound. I think what convinced Zebaloon was word that the Governor'd taken his Clan as personal servants, and that most of them were still alive.”

Yantilee's huge fists clenched, and he leaned them on the floor to keep them that way. “Lies, as it turned out. There was no faction. Galra don't like their subjects to have armed forces of their own. The Governor had replaced our own government officials with his little pets and got them to lure us in. They took the Admiral, all of the command staff, and most of the grunts. Only reason I escaped with a handful of others was that we'd been sent on a mail run to Blentho. We all thought it was garbage duty, seeing as how we'd nearly blown a previous mission a little time earlier, but it saved our lives. We got back in time to see the executions finishing up. We were too late to rescue any of them. Then we left, but not before we'd been spotted. Twosian died during the escape. I got busted back down to grunt for trying to help him. Sergeant Kaowaar and Corporal Seelan were taken a month later when they tried hooking us up with a resistance group on Ulmagri. Things sort of came to an end at that point. Got made corporal, then sergeant again 'cause they weren't around to do it. Lieutenant Linghra got shot down during that fight, so I had to lieutenant for him for the next few hours. Then Cap'n Baogru suicided with a grenade when they took him. Didn't even try to save his rank-pin, since some Galra soldier got to it first when they caught the rest, and the last three grunts died later that evening just before the executions, trying for a rescue against my orders. I signed up with Plosser the following dawn. I've had better days.”

Haswick flicked a few hands at Yantilee. “It took him a while to get used to having Ronok around, as you might imagine.”

Yantilee sighed and straightened up a shoulder's worth, flexing the upper hands. “Not all that long. He's a reasonable sort and is the only person I know of, other than me, who knows how to cook Elikonian food. You can forgive a lot when you've got a bowl of crinian obbest in front of you. 'Specially if you've been eating troopship-fabbed rations for three years running.”

Kezz chuckled. “Yeah. A lot of the crew have similar stories to ours, but Captain Plosser's in it for the looting and the shooting, and only simple self-preservation keeps him away from Empire ships. Same goes for his favorite henchmen. They're a rough bunch, all right, so stay out of their way.”

“Okay,” Varda said, watching Yantilee's feathers. They were starting to relax now; one of the things that she liked best about the giant was that he never stayed upset for long. Elikonians never forgot anything, but they couldn't stay angry for more than a few minutes at a time. That made sense, since any creature with fists of that size and number tended to resolve its issues very quickly.

Yantilee straightened up the rest of the way, shaking the stiffness out of the ropy tendons in the fingers and gazing out at the stars. “Varda, when we found you, you had a weapon. Odd little thing, no more than a handgrip. Cap'n's got it in the strongroom now, of course, but I assume you knew how to use it.”

Varda blinked. “I don't know.”

“Your muscles will. I think I'll have Ronok bribe Celenast into giving you some knife lessons. He's an Unilu, and they're natural blade men.” Yantilee scratched absently at his belly. “You're too vulnerable for my liking. A knowing of knifeplay would ease that worry.”

Varda couldn't help but agree. She'd seen the four-armed, goblinish little fellow at practice once or twice, and could only admire his skill. It would certainly help if they ever wound up in real trouble.

 

_Where is the green Lion,_ Haggar demanded of the universe, _and where is its Paladin?_

Stars spun in her mind's eye, whole galaxies whirling like wheels of light, none of which were willing to divulge this one secret. There had been a time once, long and long ago, where it had seemed like the very heart of creation had sung to her. She could not quite remember when the song had stopped. It did not matter; she had other ways of finding what she wanted now, and did not hesitate to use them. Something had gone wrong with the carefully-crafted spell that she'd launched at the Lion; it should have struck one target only, not arced its way over several! As a result, the effects were unclear, and she could not locate either her primary target, or any of the others for that matter. The one upshot of this whole matter was that Voltron had not been seen or heard from in nearly three months now. It was possible that at least one of the Paladins was dead, although she doubted it. Heroes, she had learned over the centuries, had an infuriating habit of surviving despite astronomical odds. Zarkon shared that trait.

Was _one,_ Lizenne's mocking voice chided her out of her memory, breaking her concentration. _Now he is the master of all he surveys, and what has it brought him?_ Haggar jerked out of her trance and spat a curse that sizzled on the air for a moment before fading. A vision of her Lord lying unconscious and vulnerable in the life-support unit flickered through her mind. She had received no messages from her Druids warning of any attempts made upon his life, but that didn't mean that there hadn't been any. She had been away from the heart of the Empire for too long; Haggar knew all too well what games powerful officials liked to play when the higher authorities were absent, and what ambitions began to stir. Lotor might have been the Crown Prince, but there were other potential heirs rattling around; none of them had the will or the drive that Zarkon possessed, but one needed neither to become a puppet ruler. Rather the reverse. She'd seen to it that the riskier ones had been disposed of, but all it took was one. Just one, with the right backing and enough careful planning could disrupt decades of painstaking work. She herself had played that game more than once in the past, and so she _knew._ Haggar pushed herself to her feet and headed for the bridge.

Lotor was there for once, slouching in his command chair and looking bored while his men searched the empty reaches of space for any hint of their foes. “Lady Haggar,” he greeted her, “have you found anything?”

“Nothing,” she admitted, “I do not have sufficient range without the support of my Druids.”

Lotor grunted. “You had one, and burned it out casting that spell. Which went awry anyway, I might add.”

She shot him a quelling look. “It should not have done that. I will find out why. Your forces were not sufficient to capture them either. We will return to Parzurak now; I need to check up on your father, and make use of my scrying chamber. There are more mundane matters that need seeing to as well.”

Lotor snorted. “How tedious. Well, I will be glad enough to be back in the center of things. There is nothing to do out here.”

Haggar mentally translated that statement as: _There is no one to fight, we're out of wine, and the only woman for lightyears around is my Father's antique witch._ “Perhaps you can make yourself useful by doing a little pirate-hunting,” she suggested acidly, “Voltron's activities have been encouraging those vermin, and there are several sectors where they have become a threat to shipping. Who knows? You might even rescue a princess.”

Lotor smiled, and his eyes grew thoughtful. His hand strayed unheeded to the left side of his torso, just under the ribcage, where Haggar knew he bore two long scars. Perhaps, like his father, Lotor had a weakness for beautiful Altean women. “Indeed,” he murmured softly, “I could use a little fun after three months of boredom, and interrogating the captains is sometimes worthwhile... as is collecting the bounties on them.”

“Let us go, then,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the stars. “Perhaps a change of scene will do us both good.”

 

Varda was busy ladling up bowls of gerrit chowder when she heard Ronok say, “Hey, Nasty, got a proposition for you.”

Varda looked up to see Celenast, who had indeed been nicknamed “Nasty” by those who'd found themselves on the wrong end of his knives, sitting at the counter and looking mildly offended. He was a small, skinny fellow with a light olive-green complexion, shoulder-length hair the same color and texture as cornsilk worn under a faded red bandanna, and the sly expression that came naturally to his people. Nasty sneered as only an Unilu could sneer, and made a crude gesture with a pair of hands. “I don't haggle with Galra, Ronok. Like I'm going to waste a million-year-old traditional art form on a murderous oppressor. Even a dead one.”

Ronok didn't bat an eyelash at this insult. “Art form, my hairy purple ass. Your lot have been thieves and swindlers since your ugly little ancestors crawled out from under their rocks.”

“Only the very best thieves and swindlers. And being a murderous oppressor is so much more noble than they were, eh?” Nasty said sarcastically.

Ronok handed him a bowl of chowder. “Depends on who you ask. I've got six cans of murderously oppressive temmin okk that might do with being shown the light of sweet reason. One or two of 'em, anyway.”

Nasty dropped his spoon into his chowder with a _splat_ and stared at the elderly Galra. “Temmin okk. _Real_ temmin okk?”

Ronok gave him a faint smile. “'S what it says on the cans. Baltom brand, stasis-sealed, good until two years from now. Ceremonial grade, from the southern deeps of Wolach. Got this little green symbol stamped on the bottom, too. Looks like four knives.”

Nasty thought that over, struggling to keep his expression neutral and not having much luck. “What size cans?”

“Thirty moleks per can,” Ronok said casually, handing another bowl to a passing pirate. “They're taking up space. Was considering dumping them, since I've got no clue of how to make that stuff appetizing.”

Nasty made a grinding noise in the back of his throat. “What do you want, you washed-out extortionist?”

“A lot of things, but no amount of temmin okk will buy them,” Ronok looked grim for a moment. “It's not for me.”

Nasty gave him a look of deep suspicion. “You don't proxy for anyone, old man.”

Ronok gave him the sort of enigmatic glance that tended to drive high-strung types up the wall. “No, but I'll do the occasional favor... so long as it's worth my while.”

Varda had to quash a giggle. Nasty hated having to get things through independent dealers, especially ones who couldn't be intimidated or replaced, or who owed him nothing, or who had lots of big unsympathetic friends. Nasty hadn't gone out of his way to make friends of his own among the crew, either. “Where did you get Baltom cans, Ronok?”

“Same place I get all of my supplies,” Ronok replied, ignoring the Unilu's dangerous tone. “All over the place. Every time we take a ship, the kitchen stuff is mine first, minus any booze other than cooking wine, since Doc has dibs on the good stuff. Every time we hit a port, I go straight to the commissary dealers. I may be an undead murdering oppressor, but I take my job seriously, and every so often somebody turns up something unusual. Like six cans of temmin okk. Which I'm getting tired of tripping over every time someone wants a plate of tetran fritters.”

Nasty let out an inarticulate squawk of exasperated fury, spreading all four arms out and waving his fists angrily before thumping them down hard on the scarred surface of the counter. “All right, all right, I'm listening! What venom-dribbling swamp demon crawled up out of its slime pit and offered you iniquitous favors in order to ruin my supper?”

“Yantilee, if you must know,” and Ronok smiled to see Nasty gulp and suddenly look nervous. “Although I've always found her to be an excellent person of taste and refinement, with meticulous personal hygiene and a strong moral code. Of course, you understand, that this is the opinion of a culinarily-inclined, oppressive zombie who happens to have made you your supper.”

Nasty groaned. “You're too good at this. Fine. What does she want of me, and why is it you bullying me into whatever the _clarsh_ she wants and not her?”

“Because it's not for her, either.” Ronok said sweetly, offering him a glass of loret cider.

Nasty waved his fists in the air again with a heartfelt _“Aaargh!”_ but accepted the glass and took a long gulp. Out of spite, he attacked his chowder, devouring half of it before deigning to speak again. “So, what _does_ she want?”

“Lessons,” Ronok said absently, adding a couple of vital spices to a bowl for another crewman. “lessons that only an untrustworthy little throwback could possibly teach, in return for a can or two of inconvenient and largely inedible mush.”

Nasty let out a bark of derisive laughter, waving his spoon at the cook. “Never! No Unilu has ever taught any but their own the art of the haggling, nor yet of the klepto-pecuniary, nor of discourse! All six cans might serve to buy her a short summary, and that's only if it's three years old and has been on the clearance shelf for two of them. Besides, have you seen her hands? I'd have to find her some pockets a meter wide to practice on!”

“You aren't paying attention. They're not for her.” Ronok handed off the bowl and filled another glass with cider. “And did I say anything about lying, cheating, and stealing? Goodness, no, we zombies are too noble for such things. Far too busy oppressing the soup, for one. She wants _me_ to coax _you,_ using something that you want very much and that I don't need, to teach something to someone else. Do try to keep up.”

The dirty look that Nasty gave him could have won prizes for sheer stinkeye. “Quit stringing me along, Ronok. Nothing you can say is going to shake me. I know where you store the food.”

“You know where the common-use pantries are,” Ronok replied easily, popping open a bin of crackers. “But not all of them. Not the one where I keep the special stuff. Same place I keep the Captain's squails.”

Nasty glared at him. “We haven't been anywhere near anyplace that's had squails since...”

He trailed off. Ronok was smiling at him again, and Varda half-expected the Unilu to explode. Nasty pounded his fists on the counter again. _“Stop_ that! What. Does. She. Want?”

“Would a simple 'please' hurt so much?” Ronok chided gently, then scowled at the flash of silver near Nasty's belt. “Don't you dare throw that at me, or the deal's off and I dump the cans. That's better, although don't put it away just yet. Yantilee has decided that six cans of ceremonial-grade temmin okk would be a good trade for some knife-fighting lessons--”

“Hah!” Nasty said, driving the tip of the knife into the counter with a _thunk_ and reaching for his glass _._

“--for Varda.” Ronok finished, and with excellent timing; Nasty had just taken another sip of his cider.

“The... the kitchen slave?” Nasty croaked when the coughing fit had eased off. “Why her? Why me? Why now?”

Ronok leaned his elbows on the counter, bringing him eye-to-streaming-eye with the Unilu. “Because I don't like waste. She's a good worker, and I don't want her getting eaten by that Gantar. Because you're about her size and you're the best blade man on board. Because now's the time. I also paid good money for those cans and I need the space. In any case, I'm not paying you to teach her. That's something that an honest businessperson would do.”

“Oh, you aren't, are you?” Nasty growled, wiping his face.

“No, I'm a murderous oppressor and dead as well,” Ronok bared sharp teeth in a grin. “Dead murderous oppressors can't be bothered with honesty. I'm bribing you into teaching the kitchen scut how to defend herself so that she can deprive the Captain of his best weapon during the inevitable mutiny. Will that do? Yes or no, Nasty. If you refuse, I'm dumping the cans.”

“You play dirty, old man,” Nasty growled, glaring at Varda. “Fine. What makes you think that you can figure out which end of a knife to hold, much less how to use one, girl?”

Varda pushed her glasses up and pointed at his knife. “Simple. I watched the zombie. The pointy bit is what does the cutting. Now I want to see what the untrustworthy throwback can do with it.”

Nasty smirked and pulled the knife free of the counter, spun it expertly around in his hand, and sheathed it. “Hah! Good. All right, kitchen slave, I'll show you how I slice it fine. Perhaps after a few years of practice you'll be able to spread jam on your toast without lopping off too many of your fingers.”

Varda stuck her tongue out at him. “If it takes me that long to learn to do that, then you've got no business teaching.”

Ronok smiled. “I see that you two are going to get along like a house on fire.”

Varda grinned. “Screams? Flames? Explosions? Everybody running away in a blind panic? Oh, yeah, that sounds about right.”

Nasty hooted with laughter and saluted her with his glass. “Yes! You've found me a good one, old man. This'll be fun. You just go and get that temmin okk out of the back, and we'll get right to it.”

“Sure thing. You'll have to wait until late shift begins, since I've got her 'til then,” Ronok indicated his half-empty bowl. “And you need to finish your dinner. You'll need your strength, trust me on this.”

Varda looked back and forth between them suspiciously. “You're actually best friends, aren't you?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. Been so for years,” Ronok said cheerfully, grasping Nasty's upper left shoulder companionably. “The more I insulted him, the better he liked it. People tend to be too polite to blade men with iffy tempers.”

Nasty nodded. “He trades insults and haggles like a champ, which no one else around here can do without resorting to profanity. Meh. Swearwords are for the weak. And he occasionally slips me the odd treat, although never for free. It's almost like being at home.”

Ronok shrugged. “I'm dead to my world and he's banished from his, which is nearly the same thing. We get along okay.”

“Two lost souls...” Nasty said in a sappy tone that quivered with fake passion, eyes wide and doelike and all four arms waving about dramatically, “...flung through the cosmos at the whims of fate... two shining stars in an eternity of lonely darkness, uniting at last among the dregs of society... see how their pure-hearted passion redeems the degenerate pirates that they must serve... calling forth the innate nobility, the true, pure courage of these renegade rogues...”

By this time, Ronok and Varda were laughing hysterically. “I thought... I thought that you'd kicked that bad habit,” Ronok gasped around his chortles. “You sound exactly like that lousy drama vid series.”

“I did. Doesn't mean I've forgotten how it goes.” Nasty picked up his spoon again. “That sort of thing's good for interrogating prisoners too, so pay attention, girl.”

Varda giggled and promised to do just that, and then subsided into distracted silence. “I knew a couple of guys like you. They were always poking at each other... because they... because they were too dense to find a better way to express affection. It was almost a game. They were... really good friends, but they were always fighting.”

“It can take a while,” Ronok said, “especially with young males. Who were they?”

Varda groaned. “I don't know. It's gone. They were my friends, too.”

Nasty grunted. “Worry about it later. You eat too, girl, but not too much, and bring a snack for afters. Meet me down in Pumping Station 6, 'cause I've set it up as a practice room. I'll give you a quick demo and we can work things out from there.”

“Okay,” Varda said, and turned back to her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo and thanks to everyone who has been leaving kudos and comments. Those are what keep us encouraged to write more. We appreciate hearing from all of you about what you find enjoyable about the story, because it motivates us to write our best.  
> I just want to let you all know that as the next few months progress, updates might get a bit more unpredictable and spaced out. I work in retail, and the Holiday Season is a horrible dimension of Evil that lasts from the first of November all the way to Valentines Day. There is no such thing as sanity for those in retail. With Dad's recovery alongside that, things are going to be a mite hectic. But I will do my best to get new chapters posted as often as I can.


	3. Recovery, Rediscovery, and Peanut Butter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just want to say again how much we appreciate those of you who take the time to leave comments and kudos. Especially the comments. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing your thoughts!

Chapter 3: Recovery, Rediscovery, and Peanut Butter

 

Keith was gasping for breath, soaked with sweat beneath his armor and nearly spent, but still he fought on against the terrible foe. Again and again the dark blade lashed out, its bright edge striking sparks every time it met his own. Each strike made the muscles and tendons in his arm sing with pain, and he was forced to retreat, step by shaking step until one knee gave way. He fell heavily, holding onto his sword more out of habit than anything else. His opponent darted in for the kill, but he wasn't finished yet. With a mighty heave, he swept one leg around and kicked the attacker in the back of one knee, tripping it so that it fell with a thud next to him; a half-second later, he had his blade pressed to its throat. “Yield.”

“I yield,” his mother said. “You're getting better.”

“Yup. You're still letting me win, though. You haven't really fallen that awkwardly since you crashed on Earth, I'll bet.” Keith panted a laugh and tried to sit up. “Thanks anyway.”

“Caught,” Zaianne chuckled and helped him up. “You need these small victories, though, or you'll lose heart. Anyone else want another try?”

Allura raised a hand. “I think that I might have enough energy left for a short bout with Kolanth. You've pretty much worn the others out, I think.”

Zaianne and Kolanth cast an appraising glance at Lance, Hunk, and Lizenne, who had slumped together on one of the float-pallets from the nearby storerooms.

“You may be right,” Zaianne said, adding Keith to that pile. “They did put up a good fight, though, all things considered. Over to you, Kolanth.”

Kolanth nodded and drew his blade, sliding into a fighting stance with a smooth ease that Allura envied. Kolanth was shorter than Zaianne was, and not quite as fast; he was just as determined to return the Paladins to full strength in as little time as possible as she was, however. Allura did not last against him for nearly as long as she would have liked, and soon joined the others on the float-pallet. Kolanth wasn't willing to stop, and a hand signal summoned Zaianne over for a real test of his own skills. He still doubted that he had fully recovered from the injuries that he'd taken from the Druid and the cursed key, and Zaianne was starting to get tired of that. She pressed him ruthlessly, smashing at his defenses and forcing him to use all of his strength and skill just to keep up with her, until they both came to a stalemate in one corner of the room.

The exhausted Paladins watched the display with open admiration. Lance nudged Lizenne with an elbow. “You mentioned that you had to fight her back on Zampedri. Have you been holding back on us?”

Lizenne vented a tired snort. “No. She was already weary from being pursued by that Ghamparva when we met, and even though I had my spear, we nearly killed each other. Had she been at full strength, I am not sure that I would have walked away from that fight intact, or even alive. I'm a skilled witch, but she's the better warrior.”

It was at that point that Modhri came in. “Ah, my timing is good. Food first, or a hot soak? I've got the Queen's tub all warmed up for you.”

There were sounds of longing from every person in the room. “Modhri, you are the best Space Uncle in the whole universe,” Hunk said, grunting at stiffening muscles, “we love you, man.”

A few minutes later, they were all floating happily in the steaming water, with Coran hamming it up as the pool boy. At least they could do this now with a minimum of embarrassment; it had taken some considerable persuasion and a rather lengthy wrestling match with the tailor-'bot, but bathing suits were now being worn in mixed company. Despite the encumbrance of such patently useless garments, the four Galra were willing to spare the Paladins' feelings. When Modhri came in a little later with a cart of food and drink, the air of hedonistic pleasure was complete.

Among the offerings were a bowl of obbic balls, small, translucent spheres about the size of grapes, and the sight of them made Lance smile. Seeing that he was sitting between Keith and Allura, he decided to fulfill an ambition that he'd more or less abandoned years ago. He picked one greenish ball out of the bowl and held it up. “Hey Allura?”

Allura, who'd been lying back in the water concentrating on willing her muscles to relax all the way, opened one eye and gazed at him suspiciously. “What are you doing, Lance?”

He offered her the ball with an embarrassed grin. “Humor me, okay? I never thought that I'd actually get to do this. Open wide...”

“Do what, Lance?” Allura's hand snapped up and grabbed the ball before he could drop it into her mouth. “Stop that.”

He sighed. “Sorry. It's just that I watched an entertainment vid series when I was a kid, about a wandering space hero, and in one episode he got taken prisoner by a beautiful alien princess. She kinda liked the look of him, so she made him her servant, and in one scene she had him feeding her space grapes. It haunted my dreams for weeks.”

Muffled sounds of amusement issued from the others, and Keith felt himself able to comment.  _“Ranger Dash?_ You actually enjoyed watching that watered-down space soap opera? And had happy pleasure-slave fantasies?”

Lance gave him a glare. “Don't knock it, man. Some of the best scenes in cinematic history were pleasure-slave scenarios—hey!”

Keith had tried to duck him, but couldn't quite get the leverage. Lance responded in kind, and there was a great deal of splashing before Modhri pulled them apart. “Stop that, you two. I'm not quite sure of how your lungs work, and I'd rather not wind up breaking your ribs trying to resuscitate you if you drown each other. Besides, I find nothing at all wrong in having such dreams.”

He then demonstrated his point by kneeling on the edge of the tub by Lizenne, feeding her protein nuggets with a loving smile upon his face. For her part, Lizenne looked downright smug. Allura gazed around the pool and saw envious looks on more than one face. Poor Kolanth, who was still young and hopeful; Zaianne, who was missing Keith's father; Lance, who had never had a steady relationship with a young lady. And herself, she realized, who had once had some romantic fantasies of her own. “Sorry, Lance,” she said, “cultural hangup, I'm afraid. In Altean society, it isn't done for a lady of noble blood to accept that sort of thing from anyone she outranks. The implications are... indecent, and Altean royals are supposed to set a good example for society to follow. I know that this doesn't mean much in this day and age, but it was the way I was brought up.”

“'S okay,” Lance said, suddenly very tired; the wrestling match with Keith just now had taken more energy than it should have. “Maybe I'll get lucky later.”

Hunk snickered. “You could try feeding Keith.”

“Shut up, Hunk,” Lance and Keith chorused.

Coran loomed over them suddenly, tugging at his mustache. “Now, now, boys, that sort of thing might not have been done in the more exalted circles, but among the common folk it was a frequent phenomenon. Why, I knew of one particular lady who'd made her fortune off of satisfying fantasies of all sorts, from absolute, sumptuous hedonism to post-apocalyptic drama. She did independent theater on the side, and her troupe won quite a lot of prestigious awards. Had plenty of patrons from the palace, too.”

“Including you, Coran?” Allura asked archly.

“Of course,” he said without a trace of embarrassment. “It was very fashionable to support the performing arts.”

Keith groaned. “I don't even want to think about that. Lizenne, how are you coming along? I saw you with the dragons earlier.”

Lizenne shook her head. “I'm mending, but my body's catching up faster than my powers are. I should not have attempted to stop that curse alone, but I had no choice. Right now, so much as lighting a candle could drop me into a coma for a month. That's actually an improvement—a week ago, it could have killed me. I take it that you haven't had much luck with your own efforts?”

“No,” Allura sighed. “She's alive, and doing better than we are. It does indeed seem that we took the brunt of the curse for her. That's all that we have been able to discover.”

Kolanth rumbled. “I wish that I could have found out so much. The only news of interest that I've found so far is that Haggar hasn't found her either. The witch has gone back to Parzurak, probably to hover over the Emperor like the carrion bird that she resembles. The Prince is off hunting pirates in the more remote sectors.”

“She's probably minding the political matters as well,” Zaianne mused. “This is the first time that Zarkon's been out of commission in ten thousand years. There will be uncertainty, and ambition, and lots of little plots between the highest officials. Zarkon did not delegate well. I expect that Kolivan is stirring things up here and there.”

Kolanth gave her a predatory grin. “Of course. Very carefully, but of course. This is too good an opportunity to waste. We have destabilized things already in several key sectors, and when the collapse comes, it will tie up a very large portion of the military in those areas.”

“One less armada for us to fight,” Lance said with a nod in Kolanth's direction. “Keep it up, guys.”

Allura sighed. “I just hope that we will be able to bear the cost of such machinations.”

The others sobered. Modhri stood up, collecting empty dishes. “The price of revolution is lives,” he said grimly. “It is unfortunate, but there is no other way. Yes, many will die; it still is better than losing whole planets to the greed and powerlust of an oppressive dictatorship. All we can do is try to keep the casualties to a minimum. I fear that your diplomatic skills will be sorely tested in the future, Princess.”

“So long as people are at least willing to listen to me, I will do my best to contain the damage,” she promised.

 

Varda was a little surprised at herself, although not as much as Nasty was. Yantilee had managed to improvise a pair of cutoff shorts so that she could practice knifeplay without getting her legs tangled up in her skirt, and she found herself quite able to keep up with the wiry Unilu. Shechethra was helping—she could feel the cool green voice in her mind warning her of what her teacher was going to do next, but her very muscles and bones seemed to know things that her brain had quite lost. Especially after Nasty had given her a weapon that her hands knew the shape of. He called it a “punch dagger”, a short, broad, triangular blade attached to a pistol grip that laid the flat of the blade level with the back of her hand. It wasn't a particularly popular choice with most knife fighters since it couldn't be thrown with any accuracy and was strictly a close-combat weapon, but it had attracted Varda's eye immediately. He had taught her how to care for and hone it, and now she was learning how to seriously inconvenience opponents who were much larger than she was. This was actually easier than dealing with someone her own size or smaller, oddly enough.

“Oh, yeah,” Nasty snickered evilly when she asked about that. “Being big isn't always a good thing. Oversized folk have all that extra mass to move, so they're often slow, and they're usually used to fighting things about their size or a little smaller. A _correctly-sized_ person like you and me--” he grinned at her; Nasty was short for an Unilu, being no more than an inch or two taller than she was, “--can nip inside their reach and cut their tendons before they know what's going on. But, you gotta be careful. Every so often you run across someone who can move all that mass at a decent speed, and who knows to mind their shins. Yantilee's one of them.”

“Is that why you're nervous around him?” Varda asked.

Nasty turned his head and ran a finger down a pale scar that stretched from his temple to his jaw. “Tried to pick his pockets when he first came aboard. He caught me across the face with his tail without even looking around. Never even saw it coming, and I've seen him in a real fight. Armed or unarmed, Elikonians are bad news. You're lucky that you've got him on your side, girl.”

“And I'm happy to have him there,” Varda agreed.

“So are a lot of people,” Nasty said, raising a knife in salute. “Got your breath back? Good. Let's try--”

His voice was lost suddenly as an alarm klaxon began to blare, and warning lights filled the room with livid yellow flashes.  _“Emergency! Emergency! All hands on deck!”_ Kezz's voice boomed over the PA system,  _“We are being attacked! Galra cruiser off the port bow and closing! All fighter pilots to your craft!”_

Nasty sprinted away instantly, heading for the docking bay, and Varda, out of habit, ran for the bridge. Kezz, Haswick, and Yantilee had drummed it into her head to come find them or Ronok if she was in danger, and the bridge was closest. It also afforded her an incredible view of their oncoming doom. The cruiser wasn't as big as the  _Osric's Quandary,_ but it was newer, faster, a lot more maneuverable, and had actually been built as a warship. The  _Quandary_ had been a large trade ship before being hastily converted into a heavy carrier, and it hadn't exactly been able to obtain all of the most recent upgrades. Kezz and Vorlenn, a shaggy, six-armed Colarpian pilot, were at the helm and struggling both to keep a healthy distance from the Galra craft and to bring up the hyperdrive before the enemy came close enough to send out its drone fighters. Yantilee stood near them, neck feathers fluffed up in alarm, and Varda scampered over to hide in her friend's shadow. This was just as well, because Captain Plosser stormed in practically on her heels, his already unlovely face a rictus of fear and fury and his henchmen close behind him. “What's going on?” he bellowed angrily, his one red eye tracking the ship on the screen.

“Sorry to wake you, Cap'n, but it appears that we've got a heavy cruiser after us,” Yantilee said mildly. “Told you that we shouldn't have taken that private starliner.”

Plosser glared at Yantilee, but didn't argue the point. The fancy yacht that they'd surprised five days ago had been too tempting to resist, but it had borne the markings of the local royalty, and apparently someone had complained to their assigned Governor about the loss. “Too damn big to take on,” Plosser snarled, “too fast to lose in a tailchase. Vorlenn! Get those coils heated up!”

“Trying sir,” Vorlenn said tensely, “I don't dare bring them up too fast—that starliner nicked the drive before we got it subdued, and we haven't got around to portside for repairs yet. If I take us into Jump right now, we shan't come out except in pieces! Hate to say it sir, but they've got us. We're going to have to fight this out, and they're probably going to win.”

“Getting a transmission, Captain,” Haswick said from the comm officer's seat. “Shall I put it through?”

Plosser grunted sourly. “I might as well know the face of the enemy. Put it through.”

Varda stared as a window opened on the screen, showing them an image of three Galra at the controls of their own ship. They looked nothing like Ronok, she observed, being darker and more muscular, and much furrier than the elderly cook.  _Original forest stock from Galran Prime,_ a voice out of her lost past whispered. The central figure spoke in a hard, harsh voice,  _“Pirate ship, surrender and prepare to be boarded. Surrender now, and you may survive to face justice. Fight us, and we will destroy your ship and summarily execute the entire crew. You have one minute to make your choice.”_

“They're launching the fighters, Captain,” Kezz said dolefully. “There is no way that we'll be able to fight them off. Not that many.”

The Captain burst out into a torrent of alien profanity. Varda looked down at her punch dagger, the short blade seemingly fragile and useless in her hand. She slipped it back into its sheath and looked up at the enemy again. She felt cold and small and very afraid; she'd heard stories from the crewmen of the executions carried out by Galra soldiers, and they had been gruesome. Those spared that fate hadn't fared any better, for to be sent to the work camps as slave labor was just another death sentence. What would they do to Ronok, who had already been banished from their society, or to Yantilee, or Kezz, or Haswick? Nasty would suicide before he let the soldiers take him, he'd already told her that, and the thought of him dead on the decking was heartbreaking.

_It will not happen,_ Shechethra's cool green voice blew through her mind, calm and smelling of green leaves.  _You will not permit it._

“How can I stop them?” Varda whispered as the fighters formed up into deadly chevrons.

_Listen. Hear them, and let them hear you. Have peace, and use it to cleanse them._

Varda pulled in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Shechethra had told her to listen before; not to listen with her ears, but with her mind and heart, which allowed her to see inside the _Quandary's_ equipment whenever it broke. To her surprise, she could hear the Galra ship and its fighters, and even the lesser voices of the robots on board the ship. They were all covered in some sort of purple yuk, and instinctively she blew it away as though it were no more than a coating of grain dust on Ronok's protein condenser. They shone a pure, clean azure in her mind then, and when she touched the ship again, it greeted her eagerly. It was her friend now, and wanted to play. Very slowly, she raised a finger, and when she swept it gracefully to one side, the drones lined up and followed the motion. She giggled, and traced a long squiggle in the air that the line of fighters echoed. Somewhere in the background, she heard someone say, “Um... what's going on? I'm pretty sure that they're not supposed to be doing that.”

“And why have they all lit up blue?” someone else asked.

Varda wasn't listening. A series of finger-twirls in the air had the fighters doing barrel rolls, and a nudge from her mind sent the cruiser into a series of stately acrobatics as well.

“All right,” Haswick said testily. “That's not natural. Those ships aren't designed for that sort of flying, and Galra don't go in for that kind of showing off, anyway. It's almost like someone's controlling them... uh. Varda? What are you doing?”

“Playing with them,” she replied absently, forming the line of fighters into a ring around the parent ship. “They're my friends now.”

“What, the Galra?” the First Mate demanded in his oily voice.

Varda frowned. She didn't like the First Mate much; he was scrawny, overtall and a sort of undecided fuchsia in color, and his long-fingered hands were all too ready to slap the unwary. “No, the ship. And the fighters. They're not listening to the Galra anymore.”

“How about the drones and Sentries inside the ship?” the Captain asked, his one ruby eye staring at her with great intensity.

“They're mine, too,” Varda said, adding a flick to her wrist that sent the fighters into a different set of maneuvers, tracing out a set of symbols that Nasty had taught her.

Unilu tended to broadcast their dissatisfaction with authority by writing on walls, and he'd shown her how to draw some very amusing words and phrases. Kezz translated the first set aloud as, “The... Captain... is... a... filthy... bug... jumper. Heh. Theirs, I hope. No bugs on this ship, not with Holl, Lon, and Dwesk on watch.”

Captain Plosser observed this display with the light of avarice in his eye. “Can you bring that thing in close, girl, and hold it steady and quiet?”

“Yes,” Varda said, directing the fighters into tracing another phrase.

“The... Captain... is... the... unclean... offspring... of... a... _hng!_ Oh, my. All right, who's been teaching her that sort of bad language?” Kezz muttered, unheard by the rest of the crew.

“Then do so, girl, bring it up nice and neat,” Plosser said, his eye practically glowing. “Galra have been raiding and destroying for ten thousand years. It's high time that they experienced it for themselves firsthand. Haswick, tell the boarders to launch on my mark.”

“Yes sir, Captain, sir.” Haswick said cheerily.

Plosser turned to Yantilee, who had been watching the screens in grim silence. “Yantilee, get you down to the boarding craft. Drones or no drones, the boarding party will want your help. Tell 'em to settle any score they've got, but I want the captain alive. If there are any prisoners or if any crew are captured, bring 'em back with the rest of the loot. We'll see if any of 'em are wanted by anyone, and sell the rest.”

Yantilee responded with a level, “Yes, Cap'n,” and strode out, leaving Varda behind.

Despite her preoccupation with the ship, she didn't like how exposed she felt. Or the Captain's unpleasantly fungal odor as he came up beside her. “Little girl,” he gloated, “you may yet prove your worth to the ship. This'll be the making of us. Now put those toys away and bring it alongside, and let the boarders have their fun.”

“Yes sir,” she said, suddenly realizing that she'd made a very large mistake, and that she had no choice but to live with the consequences.

 

There were days, Private Kerraz thought glumly, where it just didn't pay to crawl out of bed. This one had been a doozy. Bad enough that he'd pulled a double shift the day before because Corporal Horgoth had come down with a stomach virus— _virus, my hairy purple behind,_ Kerraz thought, _he'd been sipping the homebrewed horath that the engineers were making in the drive deck parts storage—_ and then he'd gotten a dressing-down from the Sergeant because he hadn't had the energy afterward to put a proper shine on his armor, the bastard. He'd woken up this morning with a sinus headache, the fried plashket at breakfast was almost inedibly greasy, and then the Captain had decided to do a little pirate-hunting, just because the Prince was in a nearby sector and doing the same. Captain Vardok wasn't too bad a sort, but he was a fierce royalist and always on the lookout to emulate his heroes. Personally, Kerraz hated hunting pirates. Pirate ships were often patchwork things put together by mad shipwrights, using antique craft and loaded with all sorts of nasty surprises. The crews were much the same, being a wide selection of anything and everything, all of them desperate, and all of them out for revenge. They rarely surrendered without a screaming, bloody fight, and even when they did, they couldn't be trusted to sit quietly in their cells. Oh, no, seven times out of ten they would escape and run riot through the ship until someone shot them. Just about the only thing that Kerraz liked about pirate-hunting was that if the pirate ship was carrying enough loot and the bounties on the pirates were big enough, then maybe, just _maybe,_ a little of that money would trickle down to the common soldiers.

He hadn't liked the look of the modified Sikkhoran Grand Freighter, even if the thing lumbered and wallowed like an overfed junok, although his fellow troops had been eager to see what the huge holds might contain. Captain Vardok had delivered his usual warning to their quarry and called upon the troops to ready themselves and the Sentries to board the ship, and then everything had gone straight to hell. Every light in the Szorah-class heavy cruiser had flickered and turned a pale blue that had hurt his eyes, and then every single robot and drone aboard had gone mad. The ship itself had done a few things that the artificial gravity couldn't quite compensate for, and then the pirates had boarded _them._ Without the Sentries to back them up, things hadn't gone at all well for Kerraz and the others. He'd done his best against them, but his best hadn't been good enough. Not when the enemy had made some clever and illegal modifications to their own weapons and then used them to bring down the ceiling on top of him. Next thing he knew one of them had planted a foot on his back to hold him still while another pirate restrained him. Kerraz thought that the collar they'd locked around his neck was a bit much, but he'd known better than to complain; there wasn't a soul aboard who hadn't heard Sarge's old war stories. He'd spared no details, and thus Kerraz was able to identify the giant who'd lifted him up like a cub and attached him to a string of other captured soldiers as an Elikonian. Elikonians were legendary for their tempers. They couldn't stay angry for more than a few minutes at a time, but they could pack a week's worth of sheer berserk rage into each and every one of those minutes. The monster had handed the lead rope off to a different pirate when someone had called it away, and Kerraz was happy to see it go.

They were being led back to the pirate ship now, although slowly; while basic training did cover what to do if a soldier was captured by hostiles, there hadn't been any actual classes on how to walk while shackled. Much less while linked into a string of angry, frightened soldiers and surrounded by a lot of large, unpleasant pirates with nonstandard weapons. They were led into one of the fighter bays—and all the fighters were parked neatly instead of out fighting the enemy, what the heck—when the Elikonian rejoined them with prisoners of its own. Lieutenants Unax and Nerok on one side, and... oh, damn, the Captain on the other; cuffed, shackled, and collared like a Golrazi slave. The lesser officers were staying sensibly quiet, but the Captain was in a fury, struggling and screaming threats and imprecations. As Kerraz watched, the Elikonian came to a halt, winding the Captain's leash around one massive fist and lifting it up, pulling the Captain almost, but not quite, up off of the floor. The giant held him there, choking and gasping for a long moment, watching him with impassive brown eyes. “Quiet,” the Elikonian said in a level voice that made trickles of ice flow down Kerraz's spine, “you and yours have already taken everything that mattered from me and mine. It is not a good idea to threaten to do it again, 'specially not now. You're alive because Cap'n wants you that way. Annoy him with that foul mouth of yours and he might decide that watching his pet Gantar eat you alive is more fun than selling you to the highest bidder.”

It dropped its hand, and Captain Vardok sagged wheezing and coughing to his knees; a jerk on the leash forced him to his feet, and he gave the giant no more trouble on the way to the freight shuttle that the pirates had parked in the mouth of the fighter bay. They were crammed in, too tightly-pressed together to move, and the doors slammed shut and locked behind them. It was dark in the cramped cargo space, the only light coming from the force-cables linking cuffs to collars, the only sound audible above the shuttle's thrumming was Vardok's harsh breathing. There was a bump of landing, then the doors opened and they were led out again into a slightly rank-smelling docking bay; one of the pirates grumbled something impolite about somebody hanging his socks in the vent shafts again, and then Kerraz and the others were led away.

Kerraz tried to remain calm and commit as much of the ship to memory as he could. If he could escape, or if he was rescued or ransomed off, he might be able to trade this information for a chance at not being court-martialed, or worse, given to the Druids as a lab animal. The officers risked that more than he did, thankfully. The Emperor and his witch preferred to hold the command staff responsible for this sort of screwup. They came to a halt before a small group of nefarious-looking aliens, including—Kerraz gulped—the dark red, shaggy shape of an adult Gantar, and Captain Vardok was pulled forward to talk to a scarred, one-eyed, and middle-aged Juskoran. Probably the pirate chief, since he was doing all the gloating. The pirates clustered around them jeered and waved their weapons threateningly whenever Vardok snarled a reply, and Kerraz consoled himself by trying to see if he could identify any of them. If he was very, very lucky, he might be able to collect a bounty or two in the future. _Let's see,_ he thought, _that's Dwingo the Red, worth 300,000 gac to anyone who can get his swords away from him. Next to him is Langus Lomor, worth 420,000 gac dead or alive, preferably dead. Over there is Gnix'thpppt, worth 250,000 gac..._ Kerraz stopped when his eyes came to rest on a pair of figures standing a little back from the crowd. The taller one was a Galra, an ancient-looking Simadhi wearing a stained apron and a look of bitter satisfaction on his face. The much shorter one standing close by him was very familiar. Kerraz stared. He'd seen that individual before himself not so long ago. Kerraz blinked and tried to focus on details. Hairless pink skin and a thatch of brown hair, large brown eyes with corrective lenses, small and lightly-built, five-fingered hands, and omnivore teeth. He'd seen that person back on Parzurak, lots of that person, because hundreds of corrupted drones had broadcast that image all over the science deck. The clothes were different and the hair was longer, but every other detail was spot-on. _That was the green Paladin._ The one that Haggar had zapped and then lost, so it was said, and then had bullied the Prince into helping her search for it. As he watched, the small face turned up to the Simadhi and asked what might have been a question. The Simadhi shook his head, murmured an inaudible response, and then led the Paladin away by the hand as if it were his own niece. Kerraz then heard the crack of fist meeting flesh; the pirate chief had backhanded Captain Vardok across the face hard enough to knock him down, and after that, he and the rest of the prisoners were led to the ship's brig and locked in. All Kerraz could do now was wait, he knew as he sat with the others on the bench in the big cell, his mind spinning with possible escape plans.

 

Varda felt awful. She was exhausted, starving, weak, and sore, and all she wanted to do was to crawl down a hole and pull it in after her. Unfortunately, the only holes on the ship that were halfway safe were the vent shafts, and Rh'attz had been leaving his socks around in there again. That damned Gantar still hadn't given up hope of finding out what she tasted like, so she headed for the one place that she was fairly sure that it wouldn't follow her. The dim, tasty-smelling cavern of Ronok's domain was a welcome haven, doubly so in that Kezz was the only one present other than Ronok himself. Haswick and Vorlenn were still up in the bridge, then, looking for more ships to raid. Varda groaned at that thought and took cover behind the counter. She cringed away reflexively with a hiss of pain when Ronok's hand touched her shoulder.

“Easy, girl, it's just me,” he said soothingly, although he did not touch her again. “I was starting to wonder where you were.”

She whimpered. “Sorry I'm late. The Captain... ow.”

“That miserable bastard's been beating you,” Ronok said, pulling the back of her shirt out and looking down her spine, “as well as running you into the ground with his demands. Hmm. Your bones are showing, girl. I know that I feed you better than that.”

“My bones hurt,” she admitted, “and I'm tired all the time and don't feel well.”

Ronok sighed and lifted her up, draping her gently over his shoulder. “Kezz, mind taking over here? I need to take Varda down to the sick bay. Captain doesn't know when to quit.”

“On it,” Kezz replied agreeably enough, although he looked almost as weary as she did. “Don't take too long, though. I want some sleep before I have to go back on duty.”

Ronok nodded and headed out, Varda too grateful for his care to object.

Doc was once again very drunk when they arrived, although Ronok wasn't any more concerned about that than Yantilee had been. He shoved a load of empty bottles off of an exam table and set her down before picking up the medic by the shirt. “Isn't this sort of thing bad for him?” Varda asked, vaguely remembering that someone had once lectured her extensively on the dangers of drinking.

“It's an addiction,” Ronok replied, “but it can't actually hurt him. His innards are almost literally bomb-proof. So long as he stays away from fluid hydrocarbons, he's fine. All we need to do is stick him in the 'fresher, like so, and he'll come out all bright and surly.”

A few minutes later, the machine beeped and spat out a very bright but extremely surly medical technician. “What do you want, Ronok?” Doc demanded. “Some of that stuff was expensive, and needs to be appreciated properly.”

The Galra gave him a wry look. “A blistering hangover counts as appreciation?”

Doc made a rude noise. “I don't get hangovers unless someone slips me something petroleum-based and you know it. Since you appear to be in your customary state of ridiculously good health, may I assume that our mystery beastie there is the reason that you are violating my personal space?”

Ronok nodded. “Captain's been too hard on her. See for yourself.”

Doc grunted sourly and shuffled over, his many eyes peering intently at Varda. “Hmm, you may be right. Lie down, Varda, and let's see what the omniscanner has to say about this.”

Varda flopped down quite willingly, even though it made the welts on her back sting miserably. The omniscanner hummed over and bathed her in multicolored light from its sensory cluster. Doc watched the screens and made angry sounds under his breath. “Damn that slave driver,” he growled eventually. “You're underweight again, overstressed, exhausted, you have several vitamin deficiencies, there are mild burns on the skin under your collar, and someone's been hitting you with a stick. When did someone hit you with a stick, and who? I need to schedule whoever that was for a session of punitive proctology.”

Varda giggled wearily. “The Captain, and about a half-hour ago. I slammed a door on him.”

Doc stared at her, and Ronok put a hand over his eyes and sighed. “Care to explain that?”

Varda sniffed and glared at them with some of her old defiance. “He wanted me to take over another ship. It was just a single-person civilian shuttle. Yantilee says that those are too small to bother with. I'm too tired, and wasn't feeling well, so I said no. He made the collar zap me, but not for as long as he wanted—the battery on the trigger died. He was going to get a new one, so I asked the bridge doors to squish him. They really did their best, but he's as tough as boiled leather.”

“And so he hit you with that swagger stick of his,” Doc sighed. “Don't try that again, girl, he could very easily have broken bones as well as skin. You're too valuable to risk damaging permanently right now, but he's not the most rational person I've ever met.”

“Got that right,” Varda grumbled. “Then he told Vorlenn to set things up so that my collar would zap me if I tried to take over the _Quandary's_ functions again.”

Doc humphed disapprovingly. “Not surprising. Just step into the 'fresher. It can handle minor injuries like this, and remember: if you feel that you must attempt to murder him again, first make sure that you've got the backing of most of the crew, and secondly, don't fail next time.”

She smiled and pushed herself off of the table. “Okay.”

“Good. In the meantime, I'll mix you up a tonic that will make you feel better. It will taste vile, that's the nature of medicines the universe over, but you will drink it all. I'll want to see you again every fourteen days or so, to make sure that you don't get sick again.”

Varda stepped into the 'fresher and sighed happily as a warm wind began to whirl around her, easing her hurts and calming her mind. When she stepped out again, Doc handed her a small cup of something pinkish that smelled slightly chemical. “Drink it down quickly and try not to taste it,” he said, “then have this hairy purple reprobate feed you all that you can eat, and then find a spot to sleep where the Captain can't find you for at least twelve hours. Doctor's orders, and if he complains, Ronok, tell him what I said about that proctology session. Should scare him off for a time; for a member of a species with three separate ventral orifices, he's mightily sensitive about who gets to poke around down there.”

Varda tossed the medicine back in one gulp, but wound up tasting more than she liked of the stuff anyway. She shuddered and made a horrible face. _“Yeeeeughh!_ That tastes like numvill!”

“Like what?” Ronok asked.

“Like sausage water and feet. Yech!” Varda set the cup down and shoved it away.

Ronok scowled, looking deeply offended. “You know someone who _boils_ sausages? That's disgusting! What did that poor sausage ever do to them?”

Doc waved a soothing hand. “No, no, I think that I've heard that word from somewhere. Let me look it up.” He pulled a small data board out from under a box of empties and brought it online, tapping at it until the screen filled with text. “Ah, here we are, numvill. Huh. That's strange.”

Doc canted a measuring cluster of eyes at Varda, who blinked back. “What is?”

“Numvill is an Altean wine, traditionally made from fermented batlup berries and flavored with clauk extract. Very high-end stuff, and it could also be used as a hair tonic. While they were the only people who actually liked the rather salty, musky flavor, it was exported as a cosmetic product and a health tonic to those planets that could afford it. It also hasn't been widely available for the past ten thousand years. How do you know what it tastes like, Varda?”

“I don't know.” Varda said meekly.

Doc sighed. “Well, if you do ever remember, see if you can get me a sample. I've always been curious about it. Ronok, go and get some food into her.”

“Will do,” Ronok said, and offered his hand to Varda. “Think you can walk back to the mess hall? I'm not as strong as I used to be, and underfed or no, you're an armful.”

_I am not as strong as I once was,_ a soft voice out of memory said, and she felt strangely comforted by it. Those words had been spoken by a great friend... no. By someone who had been family, and she longed deeply to see him again. Unable to trust her own voice, she nodded and took Ronok's hand. It was warm, velvet-furred, and callused from years of using kitchen implements, and she held on tight the whole way back. 

Kezz was drooping behind the counter when they returned and was glad to be able to make his escape, pausing only long enough to let Varda knock his ears off. It took two strikes and she had to apologize for that, but he didn't mind, and showed his appreciation for her efforts by setting a plate of steamed wozzacks in front of her. Those were very welcome; she didn't often get wozzacks, and they tasted wonderful. Ronok, however, clicked his tongue in disappointment. “He took all that trouble to trim and peel those, and yet he forgets to make the sauce. First time we've had the proper ingredients for that in months, too. Let's just see about that...”

Ronok headed into the back and came out with a few bottles of seasonings and a large tub full of something brown. When he unscrewed the lid, Varda stopped eating and sniffed the air. “Peanut butter,” she said, “That smells exactly like peanut butter. Give me that!”

Ronok handed it over and watched her scoop up a spoonful. “What are peanuts?”

“I don't know. Oh, wow, it tastes like peanut butter, too!” Varda sucked the spoon clean. “What is this?”

Ronok smiled. “Mettic paste, and it's funny that you should like that stuff so much. You make the ugliest faces possible whenever you see the insectivorous crewmen eat, you know; that paste is made of finely-ground, dry-roasted mettic beetle larvae. Pure high-grade protein and you can eat it all day, but it's made of bugs.”

She stared at him owlishly. “I don't care. I am declaring that it is peanut butter, so peanut butter it is. Make me some cookies flavored with it, please?”

Ronok gave her a perplexed look. “What are cookies?”

“Small flat baked pastries,” she said firmly, proud to be able to remember that much.

“Ah. Grain-based, I assume,” Ronok said; like all true cooks, he was unable to let a challenge like this pass. “What else goes into them?”

Varda nodded slowly; “grain” sounded about right. “Yeah. Powdered grain, eggs, sugar, butter, vanilla, and baking soda, I think.”

Ronok pulled a small noteboard out of his apron pocket and started looking through his inventory lists. “Um. Grain flour... it'd have to be sylth flour, you can't digest gnath or ludon. Dintli eggs for the same reason. Hmm. Butter... that would have to be a fat of some sort, derived from mammal milk, right?”

“Yeah, and sugar's a sweetener and vanilla's a spice extract,” Varda said, frowning in concentration. “Baking soda is... is bicarbonate of soda. A sort of salt, used as a leavening agent. It foams up all over the place if you pour acid into it.”

“Ah! I know that one,” Ronok said triumphantly. “We call it althesh where I come from, although we don't use it for cooking. We Simadhi don't bake breadlike things often, you know. I think that I might have a similar recipe for something like what you're describing. Finish your wozzacks, and then come look through my extracts for something that's similar enough to that 'vanilla' stuff to pass.”

It took some searching and cross-checking with the list of her dietary requirements, but they eventually found enough of the right sort of ingredients to make a decent batter, and the end result was a basket of chewy, fragrant cookies. Varda dug into those with whimpers of pleasure until Ronok risked his fingers by pulling the basket away. “Tasty they might be, but they're still a sweet. Here--” he placed a bowl of breaded gnavva strips in front of her, “eat these, and then you can have some more cookies.”

Varda happily complied, and she was very full and very sleepy by the time she had emptied both her bowl and half of the basket. She burped loudly and slumped against the counter, folding her arms on the surface and laying down her head on top of them. “Thank you, Uncle Ronok,” she murmured in a little-girl voice.

Ronok's frost-pale eyebrows nearly lifted off of his head. “Uncle?” he said in a soft, wondering voice.

“Mmm-hmm. I collect fuzzy purple uncles,” she murmured blurrily, and then fell asleep.

Ronok lifted her gently into his arms and held her close. “If I'm your uncle, girl, then you're my niece. Hah. And here I'd thought that I'd never have anything really worth fighting for again. Ah, well, I suppose that there's enough left of me to give it one more try, and be damned to my own uncles, who drove me away before I could prove myself.”

He bedded her down in the back of the secondary pantry inside a sort of fort made from sacks of thelwisk seeds, the spicy odor of which would obscure her own scent, and he covered that over with a spare tarp to hide her further. For the first time in decades he had a cub in his care, and he was determined to do a good job of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way...could anyone tell me how to get the end comment from chapter one to stop reposting on all the other chapters? I'm stumped.


	4. Much Searching, A Few Clues, and Mixed Results

 

Chapter 4: Much Searching, A Few Clues, And Mixed Results

 

“I don't suppose that you would care to explain yourselves?”

Kerraz was very glad that he was a simple soldier and wasn't responsible for answering that question. The pirates had decided to ransom him and the others off to their own kind; Kerraz wondered if, on the offhand, it might have been better if they'd been sold off the block at some slave market or other. The Crown Prince himself had ransomed them, and His Highness was not known for his mercy. They knelt before him now in one of the flagship's staterooms, and Kerraz could smell his Captain's and the two Lieutenants' fear. To his credit, Vardok made his report in as calm and collected a manner as the old warrior could muster under the circumstances, although the Prince wasn't much impressed. Sharp teeth were bared in a sneer in the royal face, and his tone was scornful when he spoke.

“So, you lost control of your own ship's systems, and then couldn't repel a mob of untrained rabble?” The Prince mocked. “Hardly a good showing.”

“Highness, please,” Lieutenant Nerok said meekly, “we were badly outnumbered, and there was an Elikonian among them. I am sure that you are aware of their capabilities. Without the Sentries, we had no chance.”

That, at least, gave the Prince some pause. His eyes glinted eagerly, and Kerraz suspected that he'd hunt down that pirate ship just for the chance of facing the giant alien in battle himself. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to mollify the proud royal. “Perhaps. Nevertheless, you have failed your Emperor and your command. Victory or death, that is our way, and you have found neither. Perhaps if you had learned one useful bit of information during your capture, I might have spared you, but--”

_Oh,_ tajvek, Kerraz thought, _he's going to demote or execute us all. I just hope that this will work..._ Kerraz raised a hand. “Your Highness? I may have something. I saw the green Paladin.”

Everybody turned to stare at him. “What?” the Prince said, very quietly.

Kerraz swallowed hard and bowed his head. “I was stationed on Parzurak a few months ago, on the science deck during the attack where Commander Sendak was killed. I saw the holograms that those corrupted drones were projecting. The green Paladin was there among the pirates, as a member of the crew. I even got a glimpse of the Lion in the docking bay when they were taking us to the transport. It was chained down, so the Paladin itself might be a prisoner as well.”

Prince Lotor stared at him for a long moment. “That explains... much. Well done, soldier, you have redeemed your captain and crew from disgrace and ruin. I will want your discovery told in greater detail, as will Haggar; you will hold yourself ready to travel back to the Center should she wish to speak to you in person. For now, however, you all are dismissed to quarters. Work will be found for you in time.  _Vrepit Sa._ ”

“ _Vrepit Sa,”_ they responded, and filed out.

“I will not forget this, Kerraz,” Vardok murmured in his ear, and Kerraz nodded his thanks. If he survived his interview with the Emperor's witch, Vardok would see to it that he would receive a suitable reward.

 

That had been about a week ago.

 

Now, Kerraz was disembarking from a courier ship into Parzurak's own docking bay and watching his honor guard of four Sentries and two soldiers approach. Well, they called it an honor guard. Their real purpose was to make sure that he didn't turn around and run away. Haggar had a reputation for dealing harshly with messengers, and she had ways of prying the truth out of a victim that would make the average psychotic torturer wet his pants. One of the soldiers raised a hand in salute. “Kerraz, you are expected on the science deck. Lady Haggar is waiting for you.”

Kerraz nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and allowed them to escort him to what he sincerely hoped was not his final destination. This turned out to be a small, bare room that smelled faintly of industrial floor polish, its one item of furniture a sturdy chair. “Have a seat,” the guard said, “Lady Haggar will be with you shortly.”

Kerraz obeyed; he didn't dare do otherwise. The two guards might have had their guns holstered, but the four Sentries did not. They left once he had taken a seat, though, and he spent the next few minutes in dull silence. He was just starting to relax when he saw a flicker of shadow out of the corner of his eye, and something small and sharp, like a needle, pricked the back of his neck before he could jerk away. Battle-trained reflexes boosted him out of the chair, but he had barely made it to his feet before the drug took effect. The room filled up with pink fog and his bones seemed to melt away, leaving him numb and limp. Someone caught him before he sagged to the floor in a heap, and he barely felt it when he was settled back into his seat. After that, nearly everything was a blur. There was a looming dark shape with glowing yellow eyes, and somewhere far away there was a part of him that feared it. Questions were asked, and he was dimly aware that he was answering them. There were strange sensations on his skin, and odd smells, and suddenly his memories of seeing the Paladin and the Lion were cast up before his eyes, so sharp and clear that he could count every hair upon the little alien's head, so very vivid that he could see all the places where the Lion's paint needed touching up.  _Definitely a prisoner,_ some distant portion of him observed,  _I hadn't noticed the collar she had on before. Or that she was a she. Well, that makes sense._

There was an echo to these thoughts that suggested that he'd spoken them aloud, and then there were more questions to answer. He answered them because there was nothing else he could do, and did so until the pink fog became so thick that he could no longer see or hear. Somewhere, he felt himself being lifted up and laid out flat on his back, and then even the smothering billows of pink were swallowed up in darkness.

The next thing that Kerraz was able to register was pain; his joints ached wretchedly and his gut was on fire. Fortunately, the room he was currently in had a sanitary booth within plain sight, and he half-fell out of the cot he'd been resting on in his eagerness to make full use of the facilities. When that miserably uncomfortable interlude was done with, he stumbled back to his cot and found to his surprise that he had company, and very exalted company at that. He had only ever seen this person in the flesh once before, when he'd completed basic training and had had to stand and listen to him give a speech to the graduates. “G... General Pendrash?”

The aging, scarred officer flicked a small salute and indicated a folding table with a pitcher of water, a glass, and a plate of dry rations that hadn't been there before. “The same,” he said dryly. “You're to be promoted, soldier, and attached to my staff as an aide. This will get you out of Haggar's sights, which is the very least that you deserve; you've made her very happy, and for that alone, we might never be able to thank you enough.”

“I... you're welcome, sir,” Kerraz said in confusion, pouring himself a glass of water. “My debriefing...?”

Pendrash waved a dismissive hand. “One of Haggar's Druids used to be a biochemist of some sort and came up with a drug that does the trick very nicely, although it has some unpleasant side effects. The Emperor is still comatose and plots have been swirling around Parzurak and points elsewhere; Lady Haggar has dealt with them, but doing so has left her in a foul mood. Hunting the Paladins will give her something other to do than breathe down our necks.”

Kerraz choked on his drink.  _“Plots?_ Around the Emperor? But, he's still alive, and when he wakes up...”

His words trailed off in the face of Pendrash's grim expression. “For the first time in ten thousand years, the Throne has shown a weakness. Plots are inevitable. There are those who have both ambitions and doubts about the Crown Prince as well, and one must not forget that the Emperor has other descendants. You have proven yourself to have a good eye for detail; you will use that in my service, and in the service of the Emperor.”

“Yes, sir!” Kerraz replied wholeheartedly. “And... um... Captain Vardok and the others...?”

Pendrash gave him a thin smile. “Captain Vardok and his men will be pleased to assist Prince Lotor in his search for that pirate ship. Doubtless, they will have a score or two to settle.”

Kerraz thought of the huge Elikonian, and of how easily it had nearly throttled the Captain to death in front of his men. “Yes sir, I do think that they will.”

 

The quarterstaves hissed and whickered through the air, clashing together in sharp staccato clacks, faster and faster as Allura and Lizenne tried their strength and skill against each other. They both were recovering well, although Lizenne was still forbidden to use any of her more esoteric tricks. She had also suggested using her bone spear in these matches, but Modhri had said no, and Tilla had backed him up on that. They were both watching the ladies fight with appraising eyes; both Lizenne and Allura were at a particularly dangerous stage. They might have enough energy for a good stiff bout, but could easily lay themselves low for days if they overdid it. Tilla saw the tremor in Allura's legs first and uttered a sharp bark that startled the two combatants out of their concentration. Lizenne stumbled, caught herself on her quarterstaff, and glared at the dragon; Allura had to brace herself on a handy wall. Neither of them protested, however. Tilla's authority was not only ironclad, but spiky, and she was not above simply knocking her defiant patients over and sitting on them.

Modhri, at least, was a little more sympathetic, having been in exactly the same position only a year or so ago, and he coached them through the cooldown exercises as encouragingly as he could without annoying the proud, frustrated females in his care.

“I hate this,” Allura grumbled, thumping down on a handy bench and accepting a beverage packet. “I'm getting stronger, I can feel it, but it's so fragile! I hate having to leave a bout half-finished.”

Lizenne took a deep drink, coughed, and chuckled. “Yes, and we have nothing to show for it other than aches and body odor. Feh. On Zampedri, at least I had the option of going hunting, and could have the pleasure of gnawing on whatever I caught. Rending a tanrook bun just doesn't have the same punch.”

Allura blew disapproving bubbles in her drink. “Savage,” she muttered.

“Yes, and an unrepentant one.” Lizenne grinned at her. “You should try it sometime, it's fun.”

“So I've been told.” Allura finished her drink. “Where are Keith and the others, Modhri?”

“In the tub,” Modhri replied, “soaking off their own selection of aches and odors. Coran and one of the combat drones spent some time chasing them around the east wing this morning.”

Allura giggled. “It's nice to see that he's getting his exercise in, too. Kolanth and Zaianne weren't interested?”

Modhri shook his head. “Zaianne needed to sleep in and Kolanth is still scanning the newsnets. He's determined to find Pidge, you know. Technically, he should have gone back to base the moment that he was at full strength again, but he won't leave until he locates our lost packmate.”

Allura's eyebrows rose. “Does he love her, then?”

“It's not that,” Lizenne said, stretching out her shoulders. “He's hopeful, of course, but it's always the woman who makes the final choice. He owes her for more than that.”

“Oh?”

Modhri nodded. “You two saved his life, and that's debt enough for most. By pulling out those hexes, Pidge restored to him his freedom. Take it from one who has been there and knows, being the helpless puppet of a cruel master is far more horrible than mere death could ever be. Those hexes, had he not come straight to us, might well have spread themselves throughout his entire cadre, destroying them all. Kolanth is an honorable man and must repay that debt somehow, even if that means flipping through a thousand miles of tabloid articles.”

“Poor fellow,” Allura said with a smile. “A dire task indeed. Let me get out of this armor, and then we should go and check up on him.”

A short time later, they stepped onto the command deck to find Kolanth fulfilling a different duty. Soluk had apparently decided that nobody should be forced to stare at bad journalism all day without a break, and had pulled the hapless Blade away for a better purpose, namely that of giving Soluk a good polish. Coran stood at the console now, reading off some of the more ridiculous headlines for their amusement while Zaianne napped in one of the defense drone stations. Tilla took one look at Soluk lying on the floor, nudged her three companions suggestively, and went to lie down next to her mate.

“We've been told,” Modhri muttered with a sigh and beckoned to the ladies to accompany him on dragon duty.

Coran turned and greeted them with a grin. “Ah, there you are. Listen to this one, Princess: _'Sex-changed dwarf nun takes a UFO cruise! Claims to have had revelation of perfect horoscope system for all astrologers, and clues to the location of the Gorpluth of the Five Grand Tweegs!”_

Allura laughed. “Are they still looking for that silly thing? Father hid it in the University library in a display case full of sports trophies.”

“Well, it's a religious artifact now,” Coran flicked a hand dismissively. “One should never let a celebrity form his own personality cult, those have a nasty tendency of getting out of hand. Do give Kolanth a little help with our spiky friends, will you? I would, but it's my turn to sift through all of this twaddle.”

Kolanth waved his brush in greeting as they settled down beside him. “Good afternoon.”

Lizenne picked up a brush and started in on Tilla's face. “Better than some previous ones that I could mention. Any progress?”

Kolanth scowled, scrubbing hard at a dull patch on Soluk's belly, making the dragon grunt in pleasure. “Not really. The official news channels have yielded us nothing of interest, so we're looking through the independent ones. 'Twaddle' is putting it politely. We've managed to filter out most of the propaganda, the infomercials, advertisements, and pornography, but it's still hard going.”

“Ah, here's another good one,” Coran said cheerfully. _“'Kleptoking of Nophoria stands accused of stealing only half of national budget; claims sudden bout of morality brought on by scrupulous stealth hypnotist disguised as potted plant. Hypnotist denies attack, claims that he/she would never disguise self as potted cleonea due to allergies.'”_

Lizenne chuckled. “Ah, yes, the Tulenocs. They have a wonderfully clear grasp of how a corrupt system should be run. I expect that they drive their Governors quite mad on a regular basis.”

“Third time this year, according to this,” Coran said. “Ran across 'em during your wild youth?”

“I did some research, there, yes.” Lizenne scrubbed briskly at Tilla's horns. “Their civilization should have collapsed centuries ago, and yet remains rather more robust than other, more overtly honest ones.”

Allura looked up at her curiously from Tilla's tail. “Did you find out why?”

“Eventually,” Lizenne smirked. “They actually have two governments and two currencies. The Kleptocracy is the one that everyone sees, and the various lords, merchant princes, and high priests crash around and feud in the open, providing entertainment for the masses and waving around great cartloads of paper money that only looks like it's worth anything. They actually have no real power at all. The Cryptocracy, which does all of the real work, functions in the shadows and works through their counterpart in such a way that camouflages them beautifully. Galra society tends toward the monolithic, I'm afraid, and our officials simply can't understand what's going on.”

Kolanth smiled. “I may have to ask you to explain them to Kolivan at some point. They sound interesting.”

“They are, although they're leery of Galra for good and sufficient reason.” Lizenne sighed. “They were willing to talk to me only because I'm a female, and they'd never seen one of those before. I never shared my notes with anyone, either—it would have ruined their game, and I won't have that on my conscience.”

“Good,” Allura said firmly, “some things should stay a secret. I wonder if--”

She was interrupted by a sharp warning tone from Coran's console, and Zaianne snapped awake and leaped for the pilot's dais in one swift motion. “Who, and how close?” she demanded.

“Galra scout ship, thirty karalics out,” Coran responded instantly, “setting course for the Lonontula System.”

As they watched, Zaianne opened a wormhole and sent the ship through it, a secondary screen showing the _Chimera_ following close behind. A few moments later, they were in orbit around a small blue gas giant, hidden among a hundred moonlets. Zaianne slumped, rubbing at her eyes. “Gah,” she said, her face worn and tired.

Modhri stood up with a concerned look in his eyes. “Shall I get you something to eat? Hunk made sausages this morning.”

Zaianne smiled at him. “Modhri, dear heart, I'd try to steal you from Lizenne if I thought that either of you would let me live. Please do, and a cup of hantic tea as well. Iced.”

He dipped a small bow and left the room. Allura watched him go, and then cast a suspicious look at Zaianne, who was glaring at the screens as if daring them to sprout more enemies. “How long has this been going on?”

Coran turned and leaned against the console. “Since a day or two after you got hit with that curse. The Galra know that we can't form Voltron right now, and have been out in force searching for us. The Empire's a big place, Princess. Zaianne here has been keeping us jumping around like tupniks on a hot stone, avoiding the patrols. We can't do any fighting until you and the Paladins are strong enough to pilot the Lions again.”

“We're getting there,” Allura said reassuringly, with an apologetic look at Zaianne. “I'm sorry.”

Zaianne flicked an elegant hand dismissively and sat down on the edge of the dais. “This is not the first time that I have evaded a hot pursuit, and at least I have friends backing me up this time. Ah, Modhri, you are a joy and a treasure.”

Allura wrinkled her nose at the smell of the steaming sausages, but didn't complain; far too many of her favorite treats did not interest her shipmates at all. “We must find Pidge before they do,” she murmured sadly, “where can she be?”

“Haven't a clue, more's the pity, which isn't as bad as it seems,” Coran replied, turning back to his console. “After all, they haven't the foggiest idea either. If they had found her, it would be all over the news. The Empire's in the habit of bragging, and Pidge isn't the sort to go quietly. The fact that we haven't heard so much as a squeak means that she's probably safe for the moment. She is well, isn't she?”

Allura bent her head, concentrating on the fivefold warmth of the pack-bond within her. She could feel the boys in the Queen's suite a few decks away, warm and comfortable and smelling strongly of soap. Pidge was a distant green spark, unimaginably far away, obscured by shadows, but alive. “She lives, although I cannot say whether or not she is truly _well_. I can't help but worry.”

“You and I both,” Kolanth muttered sourly, “and everyone else as well. So much depends upon her being functional. Drat it, Lizenne, heal up faster so that you can scry for her properly.”

Lizenne only chuckled and began to scrub down Tilla's shoulders. “My dear fellow, I wish that I could. I am, however, reminded of an old story about a foolish herdsman who wished his beasts to grow faster than all others...”

Kolanth gave her a wry look and snorted a black laugh. “Point taken. Sorry.”

“What story is this?” Coran asked absently, pulling up whatever news channels he could find out here.

Zaianne took a long sip of her tea and explained. “An old tale told to cubs, to teach them patience. The foolish herdsman was in competition with his fellows in the valley for the attentions of a lovely young lady. In order to make his beasts grow faster and larger than anyone else's, he spiked their feed with baxin mushrooms. Those do have the interesting effect of making domestic bulbars bulk up enormously fast, but it taints the meat. She and her family were not pleased in the slightest when he dished up a stew at Festival that gave everybody a stomach-ache! His entire herd had to be culled for his foolishness, and the young lady chose a different man. Some things cannot be rushed.”

Allura nodded. “My people have a similar story, although it involves wine instead of animals. In that one, the foolish vintner added something that not only soured his harvest, but made the bottles explode!”

“Not too uncommon in the spring vintages, that, particularly in the more traditionally-run wineries,” Coran said nostalgically, “although it was winter wine in the story. I worked at one of the more ancient and respected vineyards myself when I was a lad. Ahh, those were the days! We could always tell that spring was upon us by the sound of glass shattering in the wine cellars, the pocketa-pocketa sounds of a salvo of corks firing off by themselves, the hiss and smash of a bottle of bubbly launching out of its rack. Most of us got a pretty good grounding in ballistics just by watching those things zoom by on a fresh spring morning. The winter wines were a bit better-behaved, but a lot less exciting.”

Modhri humphed. “Is it just me, or did Alteans purposefully make everything they did more difficult than necessary?”

Coran flashed him a smile. “Generally, yes. As a people, we get bored very easily and need to be kept occupied. Meddlesome, too. Hmm, that's interesting. Lotor's fleet has moved again.”

“Where to?” Zaianne asked.

“Moraug Sector, quadrant three. Still pirate-hunting, it seems, and that area's been having real trouble with one particular band. Oh, well, it'll keep him occupied and well-away from us, at any rate.” Coran humphed. “Poor fellows. I hope that they have better luck with that fleet than we did. Any bets, Lizenne, or old friends that you might want to go and rescue?”

“None,” Lizenne replied firmly. “I never stayed with any one ship for more than a few weeks—you know how well I respond to being ordered about, and I was ten times worse back then. It was about the time that I had to eviscerate one captain with my thumbnails that I decided that it wasn't fun anymore, and I was at a considerable disadvantage due to my race to start with. Galra aren't popular among their galactic peers, even at that level of society. _Especially_ at that level, for Galra judges will always favor the word of their own people over the word of anyone else's. We didn't really get along, and that gave me my first glimpses of what would happen to my people if the Empire's hold over its territories failed.”

“There is a very great deal of resentment,” Kolanth agreed gravely, “and anger, and a great lust for revenge, all held at bay by the fear of the Emperor's wrath. Even with Voltron to mitigate some of that, the toll will be great.”

“I know.” Allura said, remembering Sarell's cubs and realizing that they might never have a chance to know others of their own kind.

 

“She's not here,” Ronok growled testily. “Haven't seen her all day, Captain.”

Varda shivered and hunkered down deeper into the nest of blankets and old grain sacks inside her thelwisk-seed fort and stayed as quiet as she knew how to. Captain Plosser had an almost uncanny ability to tell when someone was lying to him, although it didn't work very well on Ronok, who had survived for decades on warships by being selectively deaf, blind, and conveniently absent whenever it became necessary. Technically, she knew, he was telling the truth. They were out in the main kitchen area, where she was not, and on the few occasions when she had come out of her hiding place, he had been somewhere else. That hadn't stopped him from leaving food and water out for her, thankfully. She desperately needed both the rest and the feeding.

“Where is she then?” Plosser demanded angrily, “I know that she comes whining to you and your cronies when she has the least little chance--”

“I don't have cronies,” Ronok snapped. “I'm a cook. Everybody on the ship is my friend, Captain, and they stay that way because I've got too many methods of getting even. She might be with Nasty, or with Kezz and Haswick, or perhaps with Yantilee, and even if she isn't, this is a big ship. There are a hundred thousand places for a little girl to hide, and I don't blame her if she does. She comes in for kitchen duty too weary to clean the ovens half the time, and I've had to up her rations twice.”

“Yes,” Plosser growled, “Morleth's noticed. You're not to do that, Ronok, or it comes out of your pay.”

There was a snort from the Galra. “The Purser can kiss my ass as well; I know that he blows about a quarter of the ship's fund at the casino on Sellepport whenever we visit, and that's enough money to feed every belly on the ship to bursting seven times over, including yours. You're fueling a witch, Captain, and those can't be stinted! _And_ you can tell your disgusting pet to leave off! Don't think I can't smell you hiding by the door, you filthy animal! If it eats her, you've lost your advantage and landed us in real trouble—the Prince himself has come to play, and he has his own fleet. Get out of here, Captain, I've the supper rush to prepare for, and you're in the way.”

Varda winced. The Captain did not like that sort of defiance, even though he probably wouldn't try to hit Ronok with his stick; that would have consequences that he wasn't willing to deal with. Not that he ate in the common mess with the crew. Oh, no, he had his meals in his private suite with the First Mate, the Purser, and a few other exalted personages that Varda rarely saw, but all the food on the ship came out of Ronok's kitchen. He and only he knew how to feed so hugely varied a crew without poisoning half of it at any given time; indeed, for some of them, all it would take would be an incautious hand with some of the spice bottles, and Plosser knew it.

“You're getting above yourself, Galra,” Plosser said, his voice low and ominous. “Starting to get ambitions of your own, aren't you? Or perhaps that Elikonian...?

Ronok uttered a sharp, bitter, “Hah!” that made her flinch. “I'll say it again, sir, _I am a cook._ Also, I am old. I don't have the energy or the skills to captain the ship and feed the crew at the same time, and Yantilee won't even consider taking over unless she's got no other choice. She's _been_ in command before, several times in one day, in fact, and it was a disaster each time. She thinks it's unlucky, and she may be right. Now go and bother someone else or you won't get your steamed squails until a lot later than you like.”

Plosser growled a few more threats but clomped out, leaving Ronok clattering his pans in such a way that she knew that the Captain had seriously offended him, and there was a low undercurrent of dockside profanity just audible beneath the noise. He'd steam those squails, though, and deliver them nice and hot. Ronok had no respect for the Captain, but he did respect what he cooked. Varda heaved a sigh of relief to hear the kitchen doors slam shut behind Plosser. He'd had her taking over ship after ship for days, often not even to raid them immediately, but to check their shipping manifests in order to take them later when they had better cargoes on board. He'd also been testing her range, forcing her to the end of her strength by making her touch ships that were nearly out of sensor range. That was very difficult, and it _hurt._ She'd felt Shechethra pulling at her chains the last few times, angry at how Varda was being treated, but even her vast strength couldn't break her bonds. Varda's other friends didn't like it either, and helped when they could, such as now; someone had just left a beverage bulb and a bowl of cookies right where she could grab them. She practically lived off of those cookies now, since Ronok always made sure that her pockets were full of them whenever she left the kitchen, and the others all kept emergency stashes as well. They were the perfect snack for her, and Ronok even had a good excuse for churning them out in job lots—a large portion of the crew had found them to be similarly irresistible. They certainly filled the hole in her middle now, and she snuggled down for another nap.

And dreamed.

It came to her slowly, smelling of midnight, moist grasses, and loneliness. She was walking through an ocean of tall grass with nothing to light her way but a thin paring of a crescent moon and all the stars in the heavens, which blazed in the night sky with that special splendor that could only be found on worlds where artificial light did not exist. It was beautiful, but there was no comfort in it. She was out of her territory, far out, and she had become separated from her pack. She could feel their hearts beating strongly, but so far away that she couldn't pinpoint where they were. There had been... an attack, she could remember that much, and a great deal of pain and confusion that had scattered and distressed them all. She could feel them searching, but they were so far away. Too far away for the wind to carry their scent. Possibly too far away to hear their voices.

She considered calling out to them, but something told her that it wouldn't be a good idea. They were searching, but they hadn't called out to her. There were things out there in the grasses that knew the sounds of loneliness and distress, and came hunting when they heard them. Her pack did not call because to do so would be to summon disaster. She shivered, and walked on.

The crescent moon had traveled half its path across the sky when the trembling of her nerves told her that she wasn't alone. She paused, sniffing at the air, straining her hearing for the sound of friends. Instead, she heard a silence where no silence should be, and caught a whiff of something that stank.

_There is a hunter in the dark, and my pack is not here._

Her foot found a depression in the ground, possibly a collapsed burrow, and she lay down in it on her belly with her eyes squinched almost closed. As she lay motionless and hidden in the grassroots, the hunter came closer. There was no sound of footfalls because the monster had none; it glided, slow and legless as mist, and its only sound was the hiss of dry stalks sliding over its hide. It was enormous, and it reeked of evil and old murders, a stink that billowed off of it in a cold fog that withered the grasses around it. Two spots of yellow burned like cairn fires in what might have been a head, and the starlight glinted off of sharp teeth and long streamers of silver hair. It turned this way and that, searching, and she knew that this horrific creature was looking for her. She could sense its endless appetite, its staggering age—this thing was older than any creature of its kind had a right to be—and its bottomless cruelty. It would swallow her in a gulp if it found her, and she would cease to exist. There was no fighting this thing on her own, and perhaps not even her whole pack would be enough to face it. She had to stifle a whimper; it was close, so close! The least movement or sound would catch its attention, and then it would be too late.

There was a sound!

It was faint and far away, but it sounded like a voice. A furious, angry voice and a heavy pounding that, faint though it was, resonated through the still night air like a drumbeat. The monster raised its possibly-a-head and hissed uncertainly, and then a series of heavy crashes like that of a large stack of metal sheeting falling down a rockslide shattered the silence of the grasslands entirely, and a screaming, gargling bellow of fury and pain sounded right in her ear. The monster fled even as the dream broke, and Varda awoke with a thin cry of terror.

“ _Plosser!”_ she heard Ronok roar, and he sounded _really_ mad this time. “For the fifth and final time, you will get this _khozoraph tchagg-chograk_ out of both kitchen and mess hall, and you will keep it out or I will chop its limbs off and toss it out of the nearest airlock! If you ever want to taste a squail again, you will heed my words, for if you try to stop me, you'll be the next through the hatch without a suit, Captain or no! The damned thing's gone and eaten the side of hambrel that was to be the crew's supper, and I leave it to you to explain to them why they're getting porridge instead of meat tonight.”

Varda swallowed hard, quivering in reaction from her dream. Yes, there was the stink of the Gantar on the air, just barely detectable over the spicy scent of the thelwisk sacks, although it was completely different from the reek of the dream monster. Rank as it was, the Gantar's scent was a living smell. The monster had stunk of death. Dimly, she heard Plosser's voice raised in complaint, and Ronok's angry retorts. Plosser would indeed be unpopular with his men after tonight; hambrel was a rare and coveted treat and everybody would have been looking forward to it all day. Varda curled up into a ball and wished wretchedly for someone to hold onto. She was lonely, she realized, and missed her family. She had family, somewhere, far away—that hadn't been a fragment of dreaming, that was real, and they had lost her. Varda didn't realize that she was crying until a pale-furred hand stroked her cheek.

“Hey, girl, easy now, it's gone,” Ronok murmured. “I've no idea how that freak got past me and it's devoured your dinner, but it won't be back any time soon. I've a cleaver with its name on it if it pushes its luck again.”

Varda groaned and surged out of her nest, clambering into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled cleanly of spices and friendly animal, and she sobbed at the simple familiarity of that odor. His arms closed around her, one hand patting her back while he murmured comforting nonsense into her ear, and she wept without restraint until she had no more tears to shed. It had been ages since she'd unburdened herself in this way, she knew, and she felt as light and fragile as the dried featherfern that Ronok used to season soups with at the end of it.

“There, now,” he murmured softly, handing her an old dishtowel to wipe her face with. “That creature must have frightened you badly. Maybe I should space it anyway, before it has the chance to scare you so again.”

“It wasn't the Gantar,” Varda said, blowing her nose with a loud _honk._ “I had a bad dream. I was lost, and my family was looking for me, but they were too far away. There was a monster hunting me, and that's what was scary. It would have caught me if you hadn't woken me up. What fell over?”

Ronok growled. “One of the big stockpots, the baking sheets, and a cabinet's worth of dinner plates. Those are fine, they're all made from recycled hullplate. Plosser owes me a new skillet, however, since I ruined one of my good ones beating the Gantar's head in. Genuine Torlox cast iron, it was, and now it's all cracked.”

She giggled damply at his injured tone and clung to his apron. “I'm sorry.”

“Not as sorry as the Captain will be. A whole side of best-quality, moss-fed hambrel, gone down the maw of Plosser's unhousebroken pet! I can't even make stock from what scraps the creature left, since the venom it dribbled has dissolved them already, and etched the floorplates as well. The crew will be furious. As hard as he's been working them, they deserved that treat. They may just go ahead and space the beast themselves.”

They might, at that. While not every ship that Varda had hijacked at Plosser's command had been raided, enough of them had been to render the whole crew very weary indeed. Doc had had barely enough time even to sniff his collection of alien intoxicants between treating the wounded, and the ship techs were on the verge of going on strike. Yes, the holds were full of plunder and treasure, but such came at a cost. They would have to stop at port soon to unload some of it and resupply the ship, and to take on new crew to replace those lost during the raids. Varda hadn't liked that at all; while none who had been killed were friends of hers, the thought of losing Nasty, or Yantilee, whose size and strength made her a regular among the boarding crews, made her go cold inside. Yantilee, for all that she was among the most level-tempered of the  _Quandary's_ crew, was fast losing patience with both the Captain and his pet.

“I can only hope,” Varda said, running her fingers through the longer fur on the back of Ronok's neck. “Thanks, Uncle Ronok.”

“Any time, Varda.” He sighed and rubbed her back. “Well, I've still got the vegetables prepped and the chur roots in the oven. If it's porridge tonight, we might as well make good porridge. Do you mind if I steal a sack or two of thelwisk from your fort? I've found that it's one of the few things that can make thamst porridge worth eating.”

He was joking, of course. Nobody on board would turn down a bowl of thamst porridge, especially not one with thelwisk seeds in it, unless there was something really special to eat instead. “Go ahead. I've got a couple that keep falling down and landing on my feet, anyway.”

“Aha, attack seeds!” Ronok said lightly, letting her go. “That's how you know that they're fresh. Drag them out. I'll just go and wrestle those fearsome seeds into the steamer, and if you could do the prep for me, we could keep the crew from mutiny with a little ranic relish to dip their churs in.”

“Okay,” Varda said, getting up. In truth, measuring out ingredients and slicing up phor bulbs were simple, familiar tasks that seemed very attractive right now.

Unfortunately, Plosser still had loyalists among the crew; Ronok needed her out front to help ladle out portions, and before she could escape with her own supper, one of them grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the mess hall so quickly that her feet barely touched the floor. “Let go of me!” she yelled, kicking at his leg.

This was Brenat, who didn't even notice the impact; Sholoks were a mostly vegetative race, roughly analogous to red oak trees, and he probably wouldn't have registered a blow less forceful than a lightning bolt. His hearing was quite good, however. “No,” he creaked, like a dead branch about to drop off and squash someone. “Cap'n wants you, so Cap'n gets you. You are property, and you will do what your owner says that you will do.”

Varda hissed and yanked at her collar; that was true, unfortunately. Yantilee had very patiently explained the concept and regrettable popularity of slavery to her some time ago. She was not at all surprised to be pulled into the bridge, although the only other person there besides Plosser was Vorlenn. Vorlenn was no help to her at all, having lost his own homeworld and eighty-five percent of his entire race to the Emperor's ambitions. He viewed her as nothing more than a tool of revenge, and liked it no better than Plosser did when she balked.

“There you are,” Plosser said, canting his mad red eye at her and getting a grip on her collar when Brenat pulled her up before him. “Where'd you find her, Brenat?”

“Food hall. Where else?” Brenat replied with a hint of contempt in his voice. Being mostly tree, he had no respect for carnivores and even less for those who cooked and ate plants. “Porridge tonight.”

“I'm aware,” Plosser grunted sourly. “One of these days, that Galra will push me too far. That mangy old _hurink_ nearly cost me my pet, slave girl, and they're damned difficult to replace. Convince me that I shouldn't have him spaced by telling me that there's good loot on that ship.”

Varda followed his pointing finger to the image on the forward screens. She recognized it as a Tomolsh trader and they usually carried valuable cargo, but it was a very long way away.  _Help me,_ she silently begged her Lion, and felt the terrible drain on both her energy and Shechethra's as she reached out for the ship's AI. It was very nearly too far away to read, much less catch even with the Lion's help, and a spike of pain jabbed right through her brain and down her spine when she touched the trader's CPU.

“What has it got, slave girl?” Plosser demanded, jerking at her collar.

The ship's manifest flickered before her eyes, and she read off what she could recognize. “Sulestine silks,” she gasped, “loose gems... rare-earth metals... spices... high-end electronics... live squails... perfumes... TOR-27 plasma cannons...”

“Good enough,” Plosser said, sounding pleased. “Pull it in, slave. Bring it in; I feel the need for a little after-dinner entertainment.”

It took nearly more than she had to obey that order, and she slumped to the deck with a splitting headache when Plosser left to join the boarding crews. When she could move again, she saw that Vorlenn had gone as well, leaving Brenat minding the helm. That wasn't surprising; the Tomolshi had chosen to ally themselves with the Galra long ago, and had enriched themselves off of the remnants of Vorlenn's homeworld; he hated them nearly as much as he hated the Empire. Brenat, at least, wasn't a threat to her. He simply didn't care what anybody did, so long as whatever they did didn't run contrary to his orders or get in his way. Varda managed to pull herself into one of the copilot's seats and dug into her pockets, blessing Ronok once again for his generosity; they were crumbly and starting to go stale, but her empty belly demanded the packet of cookies he'd given her earlier.

The raid was going predictably enough, she observed when she could think of anything other than peanut butter. She'd shut down the trader's defenses and comms as a matter of course, leaving the poor thing entirely defenseless. The boarding parties had peeled it open like a tube of biscuit dough and were loading the goods into the  _Quandary's_ freight shuttles already, and she hoped that they hadn't hurt the traders themselves. It wasn't fair, she thought, to go after ships that couldn't fight back. Military craft were fair game, of course, and the  _Quandary_ didn't even have to chase them down half the time. The really big trade ships often were fully armed or had their own escorts of fighter craft, and the courier ships were faster than anything else out there. It was the small traders, the privately-owned craft, the little hobbyist yachts that really made her uncomfortable; taking them wasn't sporting, Kezz had told her once, even if they were able to make a decent profit by taking the whole ship and crew and reselling them later. Varda didn't like that, either. Something deep inside her revolted at the idea of owning another person, and not just because she herself was in that very situation.

They weren't taking the trade ship this time. Too old, she saw, and not particularly well-maintained. She didn't see the tell-tale string of prisoners either, so the Captain had decided to let them go. Out of curiosity, she read the crew manifest: one elder, three adults, four juveniles, and an egg. Hard times for that family, she knew, and hoped that they had decent insurance. Varda shifted uncomfortably, scattering crumbs, but did not move from the chair. She knew better than to let the ship go before she was ordered to, and hoped that Plosser would finish up soon so that she could crawl off to bed. Or better yet, the kitchen; the cookies had helped, but they hadn't been enough, and she felt the need of another hug. The plight of the traders reminded her of her own losses, barely-remembered though they were.

Varda was starting to nod off despite her grumbling stomach when Plosser and Vorlenn returned, both looking positively cheerful, but the hand that cuffed her ear to bring her fully awake was no gentler than usual. “A good catch!” Plosser said merrily, “A good catch indeed, if inconvenient in spots. Blow the ship, slave girl. Their skipper gave me more sass than I like.”

“What?” Varda squeaked, horrified. “You're not going to let them go? They're harmless!”

Plosser's one eye glared at her, and his good mood vanished like morning mist. “They're of no further use, and they've seen enough to identify us. Blow the ship, I said, it's the big purple button on the console there. Blow it, I say!”

“No!” Varda snapped back. “I won't kill an unarmed ship.”

Plosser wasn't as young as he had been, but he hadn't lost any speed to age. The back of his fist cracked across her face hard enough to knock her from the seat, and he pressed the button himself. Pidge watched in shock and outrage as the trader vanished in a blossom of flame—nine lives lost because Plosser was feeling spiteful.

“I'll not be defied, slave,” Plosser snarled, “certainly not by something like you. I'd thought that you'd learned not to cross me, but it seems like you need another lesson in obedience.”

Varda pushed herself to her feet and drew her punch dagger, leaping at him with a shriek of fury. Her collar crackled and her nerves burst into flame before she'd gone more than two steps, dropping her to the floor again, and she passed out from the pain not long after.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the fuel that keep this crazy ship running. All the crazy ships. And the occasional ghost ship. And pie. Feed the ghost pirate fleet with haunted pie by letting us know what you think and what you liked!


	5. Search Engines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about the people in the Castle Ship. Spanch pointed out that as awesome as Pidge is, the others need love too. ^_^

Chapter 5: Search Engines

 

Keith woke up with a yell of fear and outrage, swinging a fist instinctively at a threat that was not there. Instead, he had to grab frantically at the headboard to keep himself from landing face-first on the floor. A barely-audible thump and curse told him that someone else hadn't been so lucky. For an instant, just a fragment of a second, he smelled wet grass and death, and then the usual odors of his room took over. The clean, if slightly alien smell of his bedding. His secret stash of cookies. His own scent, which was the slightly musky odor of a clean but physically active teenaged male, spiced with the tiniest suggestion of saffron and doberman pinscher. That was his Galra blood talking, he knew, and he grunted irritably. Sooner or later, Lizenne was going to corner them all and demand gene-samples to compare with her own. He didn't know much about genetics himself, but he did know that you couldn't breed horses to rhinoceri and expect to get unicorns. Human to Galra shouldn't have worked either, and yet here he was, apparently as healthy and viable as any of the rest of his team.

He glanced at the clock—Hunk had come up with a timepiece for him that measured both Earthly and Altean time—and groaned. Too late to go back to sleep and too early to get up. He felt too edgy to sleep any more, anyway. Something was wrong. He couldn't remember much of what he had been dreaming about, but something about it had been wrong, and that had stuck with him. He also felt in need of a snack. Again. Keith muttered one of his mother's nastier-sounding cursewords under his breath. He felt like he'd done nothing for the past three months but eat, sleep, and exercise, and he knew that he wasn't the only one feeling that same frustration. His stomach didn't care what his head and his heart thought, however, and made a very audible demand. Keith sighed, considered his cookies, felt a faint craving for peanut butter, and then gave up and headed for the kitchen.

He wasn't alone in that aim. Lance, Allura, and Hunk were already there and in various states of underslept, sitting on the bench that had been dragged in from somewhere else and watching while Lizenne stirred a large panful of something that smelled unfamiliar, but good. There was a definite hint of fresh peas in the air, and suddenly nothing else would do.

“No, I checked,” Lizenne was saying as she added a dusting of green powder to the mix. “Sintra pollen's as good for you as it is for me, and has the added benefit of tasting nice. Good morning, Keith, would you like some of this?”

“If it tastes as good as it smells, you betcha,” he said with a smile. “What is it?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” she said, portioning out the panload onto five plates. “All I know is that I woke up with a burning craving for something that I'd never tasted before, and I didn't have the heart to wake Modhri. Poor fellow, he's been running himself ragged looking after the rest of us. Zaianne especially.”

“And you're cool with that?” Lance asked, poking at his portion with a fork.

Lizenne nodded and slid the frying pan into the cleanser, picked up a plate, then turned and headed into the dining room. The others trailed after her, and took their customary places at the table.

“Oh, yes. She's my sister, and he is well-aware of his duties. If your father were here, Keith, the job of keeping her fed, clean, and rested while she keeps us out of the grasp of our enemies would naturally fall to him. Alas, he has gone the way of all mortals, and so Modhri must pick up the slack. Coran and Kolanth have been helping however they can, bless them.”

Allura nibbled cautiously at the mix of odd elements on her plate. It was completely unfamiliar, and quite tasty. “We'll have to find a way to make it up to him. Lizenne, this is very good. What's in it?”

Lizenne chuckled. “Whatever smelled right. I didn't bother to turn the lights on, you see, and sort of hunted around in the dark. It was Hunk who surprised me at the stovetop.”

He grinned unrepentantly around a mouthful of food. “I need to see if I can get the fabricator on the machine deck to make us a wok. With a little tweaking and some noodles, this would make a great stir-fry.”

“Well, I left all of the ingredients out on the counter,” Lizenne said, “if Allura's willing to translate the labels for us, we can write them down, along with how much I used and what I did with them. Something about this is puzzling me a little, however. Hunk, I know that you often make yourself midnight snacks, but the rest of you do so rarely, if at all. How is it that all of us have met here at once?”

Keith shrugged and finished off his snack. “I had a bad dream, and woke up hungry.”

Lance stared at him. “Me, too.”

“Me three,” Hunk said, “with extra hungry. Allura, are you going to finish that?”

She aimed her fork at him warningly. “Yes. I also had a dream. I was back on Zampedri—those grasslands have a very distinctive fragrance, don't they? And it was at night. There was something out there, something terrible, and it was hunting me. I was all alone, and looking for you, but you were a very long way away.”

“Same dream as mine,” Lance said. “The thing that was hunting me... I saw it. It was huge, but it floated around like a ghost. A seriously evil ghost.”

Keith leaned forward. “Me, too. There was no way I could have fought that thing and lived. All of us together would have had a bad time trying to deal with it. It wasn't a Robeast, but it looked a little like one. And it smelled really bad.”

“It was Haggar,” Hunk said heavily, causing the others to stare at him. “No, really, guys, I think it was her. When I saw her that one time, before we lost Shiro, she was attacking him, and she moved just like that. Then later, when we took that mind trip to try and find him, the Druids we fought smelled a lot like that. Remember?”

They thought about it.

“You may be right,” Lizenne said darkly. “Damn. She may have obtained some clue as to where Pidge is. We're not the only ones who are looking for her, and if Haggar locates her first, we are all in deep trouble. While I don't think that the green Lion will permit a Druid into its cockpit, there are a lot of other uses that Haggar could put her to.”

Keith shuddered. “Are you healed enough to scry for her?”

“No.” Lizenne glared at her plate. “Tilla tells me that if I push it I could suffer permanent brain damage, and has threatened to put me into a hibernation state if I even think of sneaking a spell past her. There's nothing stopping you from scrying her out, though.”

“Us?” Lance yelped. “Look, lady, I don't know if you hadn't noticed, but we're not exactly witches. They're fairy tales where we come from, you know.”

“I'm aware,” Lizenne said with a sly smile, “and don't think that I won't do some research on that later, should we survive all of this nonsense. I meant that you could seek her out through your pack-bond.”

“We've tried,” Hunk said, “a lot of times. All we get is weird feelings and bad headaches.”

Lizenne sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “You happen to be bonded to a five-part aetheric gestalt engine. I should think that... drat. I'm sorry, I should have taught you all how to do this long ago. Allura, how did your people deal with magically-inclined youngsters?”

Allura shrugged. “There were tests, and schools. Aetherics was a very prestigious branch of the sciences, so every Altean child was inspected for talent. Mine was just enough to power the Castle's Teludav system, or so we thought at the time. Beyond the methods of running the Castle, I had very little formal training.”

“Right,” Lizenne tapped her fork on the table. “I will not be able to participate in the work itself, but I can explain the basics and direct the initial stages. Your Lions will be of far greater help to you than I will, anyway, and we'll probably want Soluk standing by in case of emergencies, and to make sure that I don't do anything impulsive. I am told that I am a terrible patient.”

The others snickered at that, but didn't refute it.

“We'll probably need something of Pidge's, to help us focus, right?” Keith asked.

Lizenne nodded. “Something that she had on her person frequently, or something that she built with her own hands would do very nicely. Oh, and you'll want lunch standing by, even with the Lions lending you power. Should I make up some tanrook buns, or are you all tired of those?”

Hunk stared at her as if she'd grown another head. “Tired of something that tastes like bacon? Lizenne, a Human would have to be _dead_ not to want bacon, and even then I'm not so sure! Sure, make a bunch. I'll go and look around for our focusing thingy. Keith, you go and get Soluk. Lance, you go get the big floor cushions set up in the training deck. Allura, you tell the others what's going on so they don't barge in by accident, okay?”

“Right!” they chorused, and, with a real plan of action in hand, they and Hunk sped off to implement it.

Lizenne smiled and cleared up their dishes. “Progress,” she said to herself as she slotted the dirties into the cleanser. “At last.”

Not long after that, Lizenne found herself sitting on one of the big floor cushions in the usual practice room, well away from the others and yet feeling a little crowded. Soluk had been deeply dubious of her ability to keep her nose out of anything aetheric, and had positioned himself almost directly on top of her. He'd settled down on his haunches directly behind her, his pillar-like forelegs hemming her in on either side, and his massive chest was directly above her head; all he would have to do to keep her from meddling would be to lie down. She was willing to see the humor in the situation, thankfully, and was by no means ungrateful for his care. Besides, it made for an impressive visual. Many great monarchs had once built thrones of this nature, although precious stone and metal was no substitute for the real thing, and she could lean back against a scaly belly that was wonderfully warm.

The others had pulled their cushions into a half-circle facing her and were settling themselves down, although there was some quiet dispute between the boys over the placement of the fresh batch of buns; Hunk kept trying to inch it over to where he'd get first grab, and the others kept having to pull it back. Allura, however, had cleverly arranged for a large bowl of celenra gel, which she knew that the others wouldn't touch if there was something more to their taste nearby.

“Are we ready?” Lizenne asked before the fight over the buns could go beyond friendly shoving.

There was a certain amount of embarrassed shuffling, and Hunk took something small and fragile out of his pocket. “Yeah, I think so. I couldn't find anything in the lab that would do, so I poked around in Pidge's room a little. I found these.”

Lizenne looked approvingly at the pair of lenses in their wire framework. “Her glasses. I've always wondered why she never opted to get her eyes corrected. It's not difficult.”

“Not difficult for you guys, maybe,” Lance said, folding his long legs a little awkwardly on the pillow. “We've got some pretty good corrective procedures on Earth, but they're expensive. When we make contact with the rest of the universe, the medical community is going to flip out over how advanced you all are.”

“Similar reactions will be had by your neighbors, depend upon it,” Lizenne smiled. “Those will do nicely. Hold on to those, Hunk. Your own talents lie closest to hers, and so the attraction will be strongest on your axis.”

“Okay,” Hunk said, closing his hand carefully over the small object.

Allura looked curiously at Lizenne. “So, how will we do this?”

“This is a simple search,” Lizenne began, “You will be using methods that you are already familiar with, although you, Allura, will have to pay careful attention to your teammates once you have entered full trance. Do not fight any of it, however strange it may seem. If you should encounter something that looks threatening, do not fight that either. Do not engage! If you see Haggar phantoming around out there, _really_ do not engage. If she sees you, break trance and come home immediately. Your team is incomplete, and kindly remember how large a pack it took to take on three Druids. The puppets are by no means as strong as their master.”

Lance gulped. “Um, will Soluk be with us?”

“Not overtly.” Lizenne reached up and patted the big dragon's chest. “This is your search. He'll step in if things go wrong, but that's it.”

Soluk rumbled reassuringly, which made them smile. “Let's do it, then,” Keith said.

“Very good. Lights off.”

The room was plunged into darkness. Lizenne's voice, oddly directionless and faint, drifted through the air to them in the familiar, hypnotic cadences. “Calm yourselves. In this darkness you are together, and together you are safe. There is nothing here that may hurt you, other than your own silliness. Feel each other's presence around you as you feel your own heartbeat. Their hearts are as your heart, for you are the pack, and the pack is as one.”

It was almost automatic now for Keith, Lance, and Hunk to slide into this special state of awareness; they had to wait a little time for Allura, who had come late to this training, but they welcomed the soft rose-colored gleam of her presence warmly, accepting her as one of their own. It was almost like a big tangled-up group hug.

“The pack-bond is strong,” a trusted voice murmured to them fondly, “now feel the other half of yourselves. As strongly as you are connected to each other, you are bonded twice over to the Lions. See them, and welcome them as full members of the pack.”

The Lions were suddenly _right there,_ burning in the night like bonfires, ancient and powerful and very wise. The pack rejoiced at their coming, knowing themselves as reflections of the great beasts, and the Lions knowing themselves as the same.

_Good,_ the voice told them as if from a great distance,  _see them now as they truly are, for they are part of you, even as you are a part of them. See that when you all come together, you are greater than the sum of your parts. You may draw strength from them even as they draw strength from you, for you are all of the pack, and the pack is as one._

And it was so. Keith felt the pure burning force of the red Lion in his own heart, even as she felt his courage within her core. Hunk felt the great latent strength of mountains in his body, even as the yellow Lion knew his own vast talent for empathy. Lance felt the blue Lion's power flowing through him like a river, even as she felt his own confidence in his strengths. Allura was in awe of the iron-hard valor that came to her from the black Lion, even as he wondered at her own force of will.

All was not well, however. One was missing, one was dreadfully absent, and there could be no completeness without them. The black Lion roared his discontent, and the others answered wholeheartedly.

_The pack has lost a member. She must be found. The pack has the scent,_ a voice said, more a texture on the air than anything else now.

The pack had the scent! A sparkle of leaves on the wind, a whiff of green fragrances, a faint shimmering line of emerald light that led away into the darkness. The black Lion growled a command, and the pack responded.

_The pack hunts._

The Lions surged forward and the Paladins were with them, inside them, beside them, astride them, at one with them forever as they followed the trail into the stars.

 

Lizenne leaned back against the warm belly of the dragon behind her and felt very alone. She hated this part of it, her instincts rebelling at being the injured member, unable to join the hunt and fulfill her duty to her packmates. Soluk snuffled at her hair comfortingly and licked her ear with a gentle blue tongue, rumbling something to the effect of that the pups had to learn to hunt for themselves sometime.

“I know,” she whispered back, “but they're my kin. Not by blood or by design, but very much welcome all the same. As their aunt, I have certain instincts.”

Soluk snorted and caught a lock of her hair in his mouth, giving it an admonishing tug before letting it go.

She chuckled and swatted playfully at his nose. “Stop that. At least these youngsters are far easier to teach than I was.”

Soluk rolled his eyes and vented a soft grunt of total agreement.

 

The trail was good. It led the pack surely through the deep reaches of the universe, nebulae billowing like thunderstorms around them, galaxies whirling into the distance in great wheels of light. The Lions shone boldly with their own luminescence as they galloped onward, bright against the darkness, and the lesser powers they passed by could only stand and stare in awe. It was perhaps foolish to declare themselves in that way, and the black Lion told them to tone it down after a little time. There were hunters in this darkness, after all, and they had been warned specifically not to attract the attention of one of the worst. The pack dimmed themselves without question; they had encountered that creature in the recent past, and did not want to meet it again.

Onward they traveled, the stars at their feet, for a very long time. At last, however, the trail grew as fresh as their own, and they came to a halt above a steadily-burning red star to get their bearings. A few planets spun idly in this system against a backdrop of brilliant constellations, only one of them bearing much in the way of life. The old supernova visible to the lower left had probably been responsible for that. Two asteroid belts held more interesting things: a series of small refining stations had been parked along a stretch of the inner belt, while dozens of smaller ships picked metals and minerals out of the tumbling cosmic trash. The outer belt was still untouched, completely deserted save for one small spark of life hidden near a big asteroid. The blue Lion rumbled; that was their goal, she could feel it. The Lions concurred, and began the final approach.

_It's a ship,_ Hunk said from within his Lion.  _Big one. Looks like a converted freighter. Old, too. This is sort of the equivalent of what it would look like if someone tried to make an aircraft carrier out of one of those big super-cargo ships._

_It's almost as big as Fort Clarence,_ Lance agreed,  _maybe even a little bigger. It's kind of cool, actually._

_Sikkhoran Grand Freighter, pretty heavily modified, but yeah,_ Keith added,  _Kolanth likes to study antique ships, and he showed me some of his image collection. I wonder what it's doing all the way out here?_

_For one thing, it's holding Pidge and the green Lion. They're in there, I can feel them,_ Allura said tensely.  _I vote that we--_

_Whoa, whoa, guys,_ Hunk broke in suddenly,  _smell that?_

There was a whiff, very faint, but very present, of something rank and vile. The Lions growled. The stink was old, but not very—just a few hours had passed since the monster it had come from had left the area.

_That's her,_ Lance said angrily,  _that's Haggar. That's_ exactly _what I smelled in that dream we had, and you're right, Hunk, the Druids did smell a lot like that. Wow. I don't think that all the deodorant in the universe could cover that choice example of B.O. up. At least we'll always be able to tell if she's around._

_The nose knows,_ Keith said with grim humor.  _All right, let's go carefully. We don't want to attract her attention again._

The Lions spread out and approached with care, and they had just gotten close enough to see the name of the ship spelled out in unreadable symbols on the bow when a shattering bellow nearly shocked them out of the trance. There was a brief image of what looked to be a cluttered medical bay, and then the green Lion stood before them, pilotless, angry, and afraid.

_**Go away!** _ It roared, its voice peculiarly like and yet unlike Pidge's.  _**Go away! Not here! Not now!** _

_**Come away,** _ the black Lion rumbled,  **_come home._ **

The green Lion bounced forward in a mock-charge, claws slashing dangerously close. _**No. Too dangerous. Go home before SHE knows that you're here! You're too loud—do not search this way again, or SHE will find us. Go NOW!**_

The universe shattered under the force of that demand, and there was a long moment of confusion before the Paladins collapsed back into reality, safe in the confines of their own bodies. They had also simply collapsed sprawling over the floor, and Soluk grunted and spat a filthy word. Lizenne's eyebrows rose at that, even as she moved to check on her friends. “Bad transition?”

Soluk let it be known that their dismount had been forcibly assisted, and he'd had some difficulty in suppressing the fallout at both ends.

“Well, it is their first time,” she said, undoing the catch on the net-bag of beverage packets and handing them out; the gasping Paladins grabbed eagerly for these, and for the next ones. “Well done, people, and welcome back. Did you find her?”

She would have to wait for an answer. Hunk made a feral noise in the back of his throat and attacked the tanrook buns, Keith and Lance joining in a half-second later while Allura made squishier but no less famished inroads into her bowl of celenra. Lizenne leaned back against Soluk's foreleg with a fond smile. “Luxury,” she murmured. “I remember a time when I had to slake my hunger on whatever Tilla had just dragged out of the grasses for me. It was a good thing that I'm largely carnivorous, eh? We really must get these young louts back into the tall grasses for a good long run.”

Soluk snorted, winked three of his eyes at her, and then went to see if he could steal a bun or two.

Eventually, bowls empty, the Paladins subsided onto their floor cushions with an assortment of groans and belches. “I thought that this was supposed to be a simple search!” Hunk complained. “That wore us out!”

“It was simple,” Lizenne replied calmly, “you were trying to find someone who was still alive and on this plane of existence. By all rights, you should have simply summoned an image of her and obtained her location; I take it that the Lions had other ideas?”

“Did they ever,” Keith said, rubbing at his eyes. “We just sort of... joined all together and took off. It was a little like when we went looking for Shiro.”

“And then we got bitch-slapped right out of it by the green Lion.” Lance pushed himself up into a sitting position. “She was really upset. Haggar's been sniffing around, all right. She hasn't found Pidge yet, but she's come close. I think Pidge is in trouble somehow, and it's too dangerous to move her.”

“That's right!” Allura said sharply. “Just for a second, I saw an infirmary. There was some sort of medical pod, and Pidge was inside it.”

Lizenne nodded. “No more trance-searches, then, and we don't have to waste time worrying about her health. Someone cares enough about her to do that for us. Were you able to ascertain her location?”

This time, Allura's voice was triumphant. “Yes! She's on a ship, a modified Sikkhoran Grand Freighter, and I memorized the constellations around it. I need to check the Castle's charts!”

“Mobile, then. That will help keep her hidden. It may take some time for us to find her, even if we do manage to locate which bit of space she's in.” Lizenne picked up the empty bowls and stood up. “See if Kolanth can identify the ship; the Sikkhorans haven't done much large-scale shipping lately, and it may be a known craft. I'll meet you up in the bridge.”

When she and Soluk arrived on the bridge, they found themselves in good company; all three boys were clustered around Allura, who was juggling constellations like a pro while they argued over this landmark or that. Zaianne had stepped off of the pilot's dais to give them room and was now sitting in one of the defense drone stations while Coran, Kolanth, and Modhri sifted through a pile of data on the console. Even Tilla was present, sitting well back and watching the fun. Soluk whuffled in amusement and went to join her. Judging that she'd never get a word in edgewise among the bickering Humans, she approached the console instead. “What have I missed?” she asked.

“Pidge certainly knows how to pick her serendipities,” Coran replied, tapping a screen that bore an image of a very large and rather awkward-looking ship. “Turns out that the ship that the Paladins saw while in trance is the _Osric's Quandary,_ which has a past so checkered that you could host a whole board-game championship series on the outer hull alone. Currently, she's a pirate.”

“I've heard that name before, although I've never had the pleasure of actually seeing her,” Lizenne said, studying the image with interest. “She was rumored to be the biggest of all the pirate ships out there, if not the most effective. On the other hand, she's still flying while every other corsair that I had personally seen or set foot on has been taken or destroyed.”

Kolanth smiled. “Her history includes a reputation for luck. She started life as an ordinary cargo ship and maintained a good standing in Sikkhora's merchant fleet for fifty-two of their years. When the Opuli declared war on them over a religious misunderstanding, she wasn't there when the shooting started. The _Quandary_ was requisitioned by the military later on and converted into a warship, then set about surviving every fight her captains got her into for the next eighteen years, at which point the war came to an abrupt end.”

Lizenne nodded slowly. “Ah. That would have been about the time when the Empire lost patience with the Opuli and crushed their theocracy, I believe. How many worlds did they lose?”

“Six,” Modhri said disapprovingly. “An appalling waste of perfectly good planets, but nobody missed the Opuli themselves. The Sikkhorans were disciplined as well, and most of their military was confiscated or scuttled.”

“The _Quandary_ was sold on the sly by an Admiral who couldn't bear to see the poor old thing stolen or broken down for scrap,” Kolanth continued, “then went AWOL along with the entire crew and captained her himself for another forty years before he passed away. It's said that he sat down for a nap at the helm and never woke up. The wake that the crew held for him left marks on Glaushport that were visible from orbit. They still are, as a matter of fact, if you know where to look. I've been there.”

Coran chuckled. “I've attended a few parties like that. It's all fun and games until the stadium explodes, eh? Pity about her next captain, though. He wasn't as good at the job as he should've been, and worse at the Dix-Par tables. The _Quandary_ is apparently the biggest known ship to be lost in a card game in recorded history. The lucky winner kept him on as Second Mate, fair's fair, although he was a bit of a mercenary. Hired the _Quandary_ out as a privateer to the Finchinka Concordance when the Galra started sniffing around their space. Brave old thing, I'll give her that. Took twenty Galra warships under that particular captain, and never once got taken in turn.”

“Yes, and it's a shame what the Emperor did to the Finchinkans afterward.” Kolanth shook his head sadly. “The Concordance is extinct, and that race nearly so. Her captain turned to plain piracy at that point, and she's been a corsair ever since—about three hundred-odd years—and it seems that someone ranking high in the Imperial military has finally decided to end that amazing run of luck. The bounty on that ship and her crew, never low even at the start of her descent into crime, has tripled, and every man aboard is wanted alive.”

Lizenne laughed. “And now that magnificent craft has acquired a Lion and its Paladin, and that Lion does not wish to leave. Luck, yes, but lucky for whom? If Pidge is still able to use her more interesting talents, then the ship itself is the happy winner. Pidge herself has won, for she has escaped a curse that should have destroyed her, and landed among friends regardless. Or is it we who have won, to have found her thus? Or Haggar, who twigged to her first? Or the captain and his crew, or people that we know nothing about.”

“Could be anyone,” Coran said thoughtfully. “Could be everyone, or no one, or only one or two out of that whole mess. Hard to tell with situations like this. Back in my day, there was a science station in orbit around one of Altea's moons where the scholars were experimenting with probability engines. They made a number of important discoveries, but they weren't very good at containing 'em. It was about the time when the moon itself turned into a giant shoe when old King Angbard told them to shut it all down—after they'd reversed that last bit of weird science, of course.”

Modhri stared at him in disbelief. “A shoe.”

“Oh, yes. A high-heeled lady's shoe, with a jeweled heel, a platform sole, gold-threaded laces, tassels on the instep, and coated in pink sequins the size of shuttlecraft.” Coran sighed tragically and tugged at his mustache. “It was in terribly poor taste—that style of shoe had been out of fashion for years—and it played merry hell with the migration patterns of at least thirty species of birds, animals, and fashion critics until they got it sorted out. The lycanthropes were absolutely fabulous for a while there, though.”

They were saved from having to comment on that by Lance, who in their minds deserved a medal for that service; Allura had apparently found the right sector. “That's it!” he yelled, pointing at one spot on the charts. “There's that supernova, and the constellation that looks like a bowling pin. See, and there's the red star we stopped by.”

“He's right,” Hunk agreed, “yeah, just sort of turn it around a little, no, to the left and sort of up...”

“No, to the right,” Keith said, “the nova's facing the wrong way, and it was below us. Yeah, that looks better.”

Allura hummed, tilting the image diagonally and rotating it a few degrees. “Not quite right, though. There's still that constellation that looks a little like a teckerlinn that should be visible just above that big white star... _there._ I think I've got it!”

“Yeah, that looks right,” Lance opined. “Good work, Princess. Now, where is that?”

“Good question,” Allura replied. “Where are we?”

Zaianne stirred in her seat. “Tirial Galaxy, Sector Five, in the Great Spotty Region to the galactic northwest of the Fifth Astrolon of Chorg. That big stretch of dead space between Se'Rinax and Lompt. Very much the middle of nowhere.”

“Got it,” Allura said, making a few adjustments. “By the Ancients. We're practically on the other side of... of everything from there!”

Zaianne shrugged. “I didn't have much of a choice. As much as the Empire wants the _Osric's Quandary,_ they want us just as much, or more. Where do we need to go?”

“Nolorsha Galaxy, Moraug Sector, second quadrant,” Allura replied. “Bronash System, assuming that the _Quandary's_ still there.”

Zaianne looked at the charts and sighed wearily. “By the time we get there, they won't be. Pirates, even ones aboard lucky ships, can't afford to stay in one place for long. I don't have the strength to take the Castle there in one jump.”

Everybody looked at her, really _looked_ at her for the first time in far too long, and saw how worn and hollow she had become. Zaianne smiled thinly. “Zarkon's forces have been extremely persistent, and we have not been in a position to fight back. I can get us there, but in short jumps only, and I will want much rest at the end of that journey.”

Allura's eyes flicked to Tilla questioningly. “Am I recovered enough yet to--”

Tilla uttered a _gronk_ that was the very essence of _absolutely not,_ and added a string of crackles and chirps that made Lizenne smile grimly.

“She says that none of you are ready quite yet, and that this morning's exercise was only barely permissible under the excuse of 'necessary risk'. You are duly scolded for your precipitous actions.” Lizenne chuckled. “By the time that we get there, however, if you are assiduous and careful in your training, you should be ready to take over and let poor Zaianne here get a decent night's sleep for once.”

Allura's eyes narrowed dangerously at the dragon, who saw her defiance and raised her an immovable glare and a disdainful sniff. “I will be ready,” Allura declared, and felt the other Paladins backing her up.

“We'll help,” Keith said, warming her to the core.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Spanch for the pun in the title chapter. It's all her fault, and I told her she was disowned. Then she pointed out that if I did that, she'd never cook for me again. I un-disowned her immediately, being weak.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please leave us comments and kudos, even if it's just to groan over stupid puns. I am not above begging.


	6. Mixed Results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. There was the madness of Thanksgiving in retail, Dad continuing his recovery from surgery, then I got sick, and worst of all, one of our cats disappeared on the fourteenth and hasn't been seen since. So we ask that everyone think a kind thought for Sterling, in the hopes that he will find his way home. This month has been pure poison. But here it finally is, chapter six!

Chapter 6: Mixed Results

 

Varda came awake slowly, with an aching head, a churning stomach, and a sense of deja vu. Then there was a pair of strong hands that lifted her up into a sitting position, pinched her nose until she was forced to open her mouth to breathe, and poured something that tasted nasty down her throat. She choked, spluttered, and swallowed, then said _“yech!”_ in a weak voice that she barely recognized as her own.

“ _Yech,_ indeed,” a familiar voice said in an equally familiar tone of exasperation. “Varda, what have we been telling you about doing dumb things around the Captain?”

Varda gasped; the memories came back in a rush, and she wished that they hadn't. “He wanted me to blow up that trader! There were nine people aboard that ship, harmless people, and he tried to make me kill them. Some of them were children, Doc, and one was still just an egg.”

Doc made an angry grinding noise. “And did you?”

“No!” Varda looked at her hands and saw that she'd lost weight again. _You'll never see a fat witch,_ someone she couldn't remember had told her. “I won't do that. He did it. He killed them, and then I tried to knife him.”

Doc reached over to a nearby exam table and plucked up a curiously-shaped bottle of something green, then drained it in a gulp. “And in giving in to your temper, you inspired him to violence. Damn. And nobody came to your defense?”

“There was only Vorlenn and Brenat there, other than Plosser and me,” Varda said meekly.

“And they're as bad as he is, each in their own ways.” Doc humphed and helped her down from the healpod. “Every so often I ask myself why I chose to work aboard this free-floating vermin-trap, and then I remember the three major reasons. Firstly, that my people do not permit their medical personnel to have the least little vestige of an addiction and maintain a practice at the same time; thus, I would be permanently out of work and disgraced into the bargain if I went home again. Secondly, that so long as my 'fresher works, the pirates won't care how much ethanol I ingest. Thirdly, because of my secondary addiction, that being bad drama. I get to live among hundreds of them every single day.”

Varda stared at him in disbelief. “There were nine murders, and you're calling it bad drama?”

“Regrettably, yes.” Doc sat down in a battered chair. “In any drama or drama series, there is at least one death per season. Nobody will watch them, you see, if they aren't going to get to salivate over at least one corpse, and the more bodies that get scattered around, the better they like it. Being a votary of the healing art, I, personally, am a member of the 'less is more' camp. You, young lady, have all the signs of being a hero.”

“Me?” Varda squeaked. “A hero?”

Doc signed an affirmative. “Perhaps. I hope not. Heroes have a nasty tendency to give their lives for noble causes, and I like you too much to let you do something that silly. Haswick will be along soon to take you back to the kitchen. You'll want something to eat, I expect.”

Varda's stomach answered that for her. “All the time. I'm always hungry.”

“That doesn't surprise me. That little trick of yours for sweet-talking ships is an aetheric talent,” Doc picked up another bottle and swirled the ruby-colored contents thoughtfully. “Ronok's been telling me of what he knows of such things, and it's quite interesting. One of the major risks of the practice, however, is something he calls 'burnout'. Using aetherics, or magic, as some might call it, requires an enormous amount of energy; practitioners of the art usually produce that energy out of their own reserves, and if they overdo it, it can injure or kill them. Unless they're feeling evil that day, in which case they'll steal that power from someone else, generally to the detriment of the victim.”

For some reason, Varda felt profoundly revolted by that last statement. Someone, somewhere, had done something terrible, and she couldn't quite remember who, or what. “I'll try not to be evil.”

Doc smiled. “That's all we can ask of you. I will ask, however, that you pester Nasty into giving you lessons in situational awareness so that you don't get grabbed up and dragged off to the bridge by Plosser's cronies again. You spent four days in the healpod, girl, not because that greedy fool punished you, but because your body simply can't take the strain of your talents right now. You are too thin! You don't have so much as an _etla_ of spare flesh on you, and if you are forced into any more of these efforts too soon, you will wind up sublimating your own vital organs. Use some of those cookies of yours to bribe the smaller crew members into showing you all of the best hiding places, and do _not_ let Plosser get his hands on you again until you've gained at least ten _kalecs_. Doctor's orders. I'll even write you up a prescription, if you like.”

Varda giggled and agreed, and when Haswick arrived, she was clutching a sheet of hardcopy that would at least get a laugh out of Nasty. Haswick clucked and chittered in concern over how loosely her shirt hung off of her shoulders and herded her toward Ronok's domain as quickly as she could go. This wasn't as fast as she liked, and she was out of breath by the time they got there; Ronok was less than pleased by that, and had some very pithy things to say about the Captain, even as he set a big plate of something delicious in front of her. Yantilee, who had come by for a snack, did not, but she frowned and her feathers fluffed up again.

“That was not wise,” the giant murmured, and held up a hand to forestall Varda's protests. “Not you. I'd wondered when you'd start fighting back. Cap'n shouldnt've killed those traders. Their ship had the Tocol-Tavvi crest on it. Wasn't the best in that fleet, but it was a member all the same, and that clan's a bad enemy. We've already got the Galra mad at us, along with every orbital cop and bounty hunter in the quadrant. We should've gone elsewhere weeks since.”

“Then why don't we?” Varda asked.

Ronok sighed. “Plosser doesn't want to. It's a rich quadrant, and it's the only one where he can get his squails with any sort of regularity. I've tried setting up breeding tanks, but he eats them faster than I can grow them. He figures that we don't have to move, anyway, since he's got you to foil any pursuers. Yantilee, we are going to have to get rid of him sooner or later.”

Yantilee grunted in distaste. “No one aboard's got command experience.”

“Except you,” Ronok said, his expression very serious. “I'm sorry, I know that you hate it, but if it's a choice between survival or losing our ship and our freedom, you may have to. This ship is already legend, Yantilee. I'd prefer that it became a bigger one.”

The Elikonian puffed a bleak laugh and rubbed all four hands together. “I'll put the word about. In the meantime, you keep Varda here out of sight. If Cap'n winds up killing her, the _Quandary's_ doomed.”

Varda gulped, nearly choking on her food, and stared with wide eyes as Yantilee strode off to speak with someone on the far side of the room. “Really?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“It looks that way,” Ronok said and refilled her glass. “You've been a great help to the ship, and will be more so soon. That witch talent of yours not only helps us take ships, it can stop other ships from taking us. It won't be long before we're facing whole fleets, you know, and while the _Quandary_ can handle one or two good-sized attackers, she can't face ten. Especially not with the underpowered drive and outdated weaponry that it's been stuck with. Yantilee knows all that, and knows what you can do. She won't force you to help out like Plosser's doing, Varda, but we'll need you all the same. Please stay with us, will you? Prince Lotor's come a-hunting, and I really don't want him to catch us.”

_Lotor._ That name worried her for some reason. Something bad had happened, and she couldn't remember anything beyond that. The stories she'd heard of what happened to unlucky pirates in Imperial hands were quite bad enough. According to her shipmates, there were far worse things than death, and the thought of those things happening to her friends sickened her. 

“I'll stay. I don't want anything bad to happen to you, or Yantilee, or anyone.”

Ronok smiled sweetly at her. “What, not even to Plosser and his cronies? Don't answer that, it's a trick question. That's good to hear, girl, and I thank you. Now we must wait, and prepare, and put some meat back on your bones. I made some tazar last night and there's still a bit in the cooler. If you move quickly--”

Varda's fork rattled on the plate, and she was through the kitchen door before he'd stopped speaking. Ronok smiled. It was good to have a niece to dote on.

 

Varda did indeed find the tazar in the cooler, and devoured every savory, nutty bit of it before heading for the cookie bin. Ronok always kept a sizable supply of her favorite treats, and she loaded her pockets with them before heading out to find Holl, Lon, and Dwesk, the three smallest members of the crew. The three Nantileeri were officially on the crew roster as “maintenance technicians”, although that was something of a misnomer; they were not there to do maintenance, but to prevent it, in a way. What they did was to skitter into the tightest, most awkward, and most difficult-to-access parts of the ship in their endless search for vermin, particularly insects. This was incredibly important. There were hundreds of thousands of varieties of small, opportunistic creatures on every living planet that just loved to wiggle their way onboard starships, where they could live in luxury in the ship's ducting and raise many, many big families. These vermin tended to have sharp mouthparts and a burning urge to gnaw, and as a result, ships that could shrug off the attentions of ion cannons could easily become paralyzed by creatures no bigger than a fingertip. They stole and tainted food, spread plague, bit and stung the unwary, carried horrible poisons, clogged filters with their waste, caused sometimes-fatal allergy attacks, or gave people rashes. Nantileeri, however, had amazingly omnivorous digestive and immune systems, and could tackle and devour everything from gorp-roaches to whole nests of hiskies with equal enthusiasm. They also loved peanut-butter cookies, and they eagerly agreed to share a few of the ship's best hidey-holes in return for a handful of those. Varda rather liked the trio of cheerful, saurian aliens, and spent the rest of the day discovering parts of the ship that she hadn't even known existed. What she liked best of all were the secret passages.

“Is true,” Holl said, showing her how to work the catch on one wall panel, revealing a dusty corridor that would have been terribly cramped for anyone larger than Nasty. “Sikkhorans, they's too large for secret ways, but lesser folk do creep and sneak! See how panels is cut, how hinges, catches, peekholes is set? Good work, very good work, but so easily forgotten by the big. A little thing like you and us can get anywhere from anywhere!”

Dwesk snickered and flicked her whiplike tail in disdain for anyone over her robust height of two and a half feet tall. “Big folk don't look down. Big folk don't look up. Us, the little ones, gets a big advantage, yeah? Hah! A whole Nantileer city could fit in  _Quandary's_ bulkheads.”

Lon whistled in disagreement. “Not enough to eat, for so many. Ronok, he keeps his kitchen too clean.”

Varda, who was starting to think long thoughts about a nap in her thelwisk-seed fort, was privately glad that she didn't have to share her bedding with insects. “You could try farming them,” she suggested, “choose your favorite cooties and set up some of the hidden spots as pens to breed them in. Ronok's been trying to do that with squails.”

Lon, who was a realistic sort, gestured a negative. “Tried once, tried twice, tried a third time, fails all. First time, a crewman finds out and gasses the lot. No good even to eat. Second time, Captain gets a bug-hunter drone from one ship raid. Zap! No more. Third time, Captain's ugly pet finds them, and those who was looking after 'em. Used to be more Nantileeri aboard. Now is just us.”

Varda shuddered. “Has Yantilee been talking to you?”

“Hah! Yantilee!” Dwesk chirruped merrily. “Looks up _and_ down, that one. Yessss! Has no wants to be Captain, but has musts. Says perhaps a hydroponics section, to put in, maybe later. Fresh cuppa, tipiki, cro'ank for everyone.”

Holl twittered in amusement. “And lisson for the Captain. Yantilee trades us squails for lisson in a flash, you betcha.”

“Could grow potted flass, hey?” Dwesk nudged Lon playfully. “Got to have blits and oph borers for healthy flass. So many borers, you know how fast they breed, maybe Yantilee hires more Nantileeri. A mate for you, eh? Poor lonely Lon, will he grow good flass for a lady?”

Lon snapped his long tail at Dwesk, who leaped cackling out of the way while Varda's thoughts turned to the equipment necessary for an indoor garden. Kezz had told her about hydroponics once, during one of those long, quiet midnight watches up on the bridge, and she rather liked the idea of having some green space close at hand, especially if she could eat some of it. Ronok would definitely like that, and a lot of others would as well. There would have to be systems for lighting, irrigation, racks and vats for growing the plants themselves, containment areas to keep the more enthusiastic growths under control...

She felt the cool green voice of Shechethra in her mind, whispering to her of motors, pumps, filters, and other gadgets to play with, and tasted the special flavors that only a fresh-picked fruit could provide. Drat it, she was hungry again, and was out of cookies. Well, Doc had made her promise to go straight to the kitchen if she felt the least little bit peckish. “I need to get back to Ronok,” she told her companions, “is there a way to get there from here?”

“Of course!” Holl told her cheerily. “Price of guiding, six cookies. No haggling now, we are not Unilu, six cookies or you are a lost girl indeed.”

“Six cookies,” Varda agreed easily; she'd seen a tub of leftover lurix-fish salad in the cooler and felt that she could spare some of her treats. “Seven if we get there quick.”

Lon squeaked a laugh. “Nine says we get you there in less than five minutes. We go!”

Precisely four minutes, twenty-seven seconds, and a great deal of scrambling through dim tunnels later, they all came through a loose panel in the back of one of the pantries. Varda was panting and sweat had cut trails through the nice thick layer of dust that had settled on her skin, but she had enjoyed herself thoroughly. The three Nantileeri had fared rather better—tunnel grime slid right off of their smooth blue-green scales—and they bounced ahead with triumphant whistles and ran for the cookie bin. She heard Ronok's voice a moment later, scolding the thieving reptiloids. Varda giggled, sneezed, and went to their rescue.

“Leave them be, Ronok, I promised them nine cookies if they got me back here fast,” she said, pushing the door open, but the Nantileeri had already sped away.

Ronok turned and gave her an amused look. “Nine, eh? Hasn't anyone told you that if you want a Nantileer to stick to a bargain like that, you grab hold of their tails and hang on tight? They've made off with every last one, so I hope that you didn't want any more for a while. What have you been doing? You're all over muck.”

“Exploring,” she said happily. “This ship is full of secrets! Is that tub of fish salad still in the cooler?”

Ronok snorted. “Yes, but you'll not eat it while you're covered in filth. Come on, you can use my 'fresher.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “You have one, too?”

“Oh, yes. The ship that we got them from carried two. Doc got one because he needs complete personal sanitation to do his job. I got the other for much the same reason.” Ronok ushered her through a door that she'd seen before but hadn't paid much attention to. This led into one of the cold rooms where perishables were kept in deep-freeze, and another door was half-concealed between a pair of huge lockers that made her shiver with the chill that breathed off of them. Beyond that unassuming portal was Ronok's own sanctum, she realized, and it was surprisingly bare. It was dimly-lit to spare his light-sensitive eyes, and in that weak light she saw a neatly-made bed, a strongbox in one corner, the 'fresher in another, and a shelf that had been piled with data cards. On one end of that shelf was a single hardcopy image that she didn't have time to study before he ushered her into the 'fresher, and then she was too busy being cleaned. She did manage to dodge his hand when she came out, and took a good look at the picture. It depicted a Galra woman, as pale as Ronok and resembling him somewhat, looking weary but very pleased with herself as she lay curled around a puddle of frost-colored fur. _Cubs,_ she realized, and a memory of sitting on a couch with two baby Galra growling at each other over who got her lap flickered briefly before her eyes before fading away.

“Varda,” Ronok chided.

“Sorry,” she said contritely, “you never talk about your family, except to call your uncles names.”

He laid one hand across the back of her shoulders and gave her a gentle push to get her moving, and didn't speak again until they were back in the kitchen. “Child, I am dead,” he said in a flat voice as he fetched out the salad. “Strictly speaking, I shouldn't bother myself with the remnants of my former life at all, but some things are worth the trouble of haunting... and some things are too precious to give up. That picture is one of those.”

“Your mother?” Varda asked, feeling a pang of sympathy.

“My sister,” he corrected her, “who, according to my father and his brothers, was everything that I wasn't. That was, in many ways, quite true. She was also the only one of my family who thought that I was worth anything at all. She chose a fine man and I was very happy for her, and I loved their cubs as though they were my own. Unfortunately, our uncles didn't want me infecting the cubs with my uselessness.”

“I'm pretty sure that it doesn't work like that,” Varda said.

Ronok gave her a bitter smile. “Tell that to Uncle Morac. He and his brothers were not nice people, and our Matriarch didn't care enough about her one unsatisfactory great-grandson to intervene. My family, you see, were major industrialists; they built warships mostly, but also space stations, cities, power plants, and other such structures. Mother had already contributed architects, businessmen, negotiators, engineers, physicists, researchers, and even a starship commander to the family roster. They were not expecting to get a cook, and weren't at all happy to do so.”

“That was stupid,” she said angrily, “you're a really good cook.”

His smile warmed slightly. “If I had become a famous chef, I might have been permitted back into their good graces, but I doubt it. Even the greatest of those are still mere sustenance providers—servants, if you will—and no member of the Chalep'Thora Lineage had ever been a servant. Why, my Great-Grandfather Ghoranz once spent the best part of a year writing up our entire genealogy, which could be traced back to a cousin of the first Queen of Simadht. A link to royalty, thin though it was, that gratified my Lineage greatly. I did not miss that arrogance when I left to join the Commissary Corps. At least on board a starship, if someone is being an insufferable bastard, he's usually earned the right.”

“I'm surprised that your sister didn't bully them into stopping that,” Varda said slowly; she remembered vaguely that Galra women tended to be very bossy.

Ronok shook his head sadly. “She might have, if her own duties hadn't taken up so much of her time and energy. We kept in touch for a while. Then the Gantars caught me, and my family did away with me for good. There was no going back, for my homeworld has no room in it for the walking dead. Fortunately, the Rhandinari have a liking for Galran cooking, and I was able to find decent work there, for a while. Dra'Ayone, where I settled, was a very cosmopolitan city, and I spent many years there learning to feed just about every appetite that the Universe could come up with. I was even able to send my sister a few messages from time to time, which was comforting.”

There was a hint of terrible loss in his voice, and it made Varda shift uneasily. “Something bad happened again, didn't it?”

He nodded, smile gone, his pale eyes full of shadows. “It seems that some of my uncles and cousins had been using their high positions in the family business to steal certain bits of very secret information and pass them on to an organization that was opposed to the Emperor, and had been doing so for a very long time. One of them got careless and was caught at it, and the Emperor sent the Ghamparva to investigate. My sister... sent me a warning. That was the last message that any of them got out before our entire Lineage was destroyed. That slaughter was posted prominently on every newsnet in the Empire for days, to warn others of the folly of dissent. I sold my restaurant to a fellow Simadhi expatriate who had been pressuring me to sell out to him for years, packed up what little I dared to take with me, and applied for a job right here on the  _Quandary._ Not a moment too soon, as it turned out. Not two hours after I had left, poor Lorrak had been murdered and the restaurant burnt to the ground. I've been here ever since.”

“Oh, Ronok, I'm sorry,” Varda said, putting the salad down and wrapping her arms around him, “I'm so sorry! That's _horrible!”_

“It was, yes,” Ronok replied in a voice that was cold and hard, although the arm he curled around her shoulders was anything but. “Varda, you gave me back something that I thought I had lost forever when you claimed me as your uncle, and I will help you however I can. I will, however, tell you this: should Plosser ever bully you into seizing a Ghamparva craft, you need not hesitate if he tells you to destroy it. Personally, I'd like to feed every last one of those monsters to that damned Gantar of his, but death by hot plasma will have to do; there are some creatures that should not walk under a living sky. Eat your lurix-fish salad. I want you nice and strong if they are sent after us again, little niece, and well-able to thoroughly ruin their day.”

“Yes, Uncle Ronok.”

 

In the dim silence of their bays the Lions sat motionless; immobile, but by no means inactive. It could be said that when they were apart like this, they were merely components of a greater whole. Those who said that, however, often forgot that each one was an entity in its own right. Quite aside from the secret and now forgotten methods of their construction, every pilot, every Paladin, and every cadet who had sat within their cockpits had left an impression on those entities, adding depth and strength to the artificial minds, however faint. Every such layer was precious, for they enhanced the gestalt immeasurably, but it made some things very difficult, and due to their recent long sleep, painful. They were a gestalt intelligence whose very heart and soul depended on strong bonds and close cooperation, and they hated separation above all other things. Words unheard by any other creature flew between them, and the black Lion was not shy about letting his discontent be known. He was also not used to being disobeyed. The green Lion's refusal to return to the Castle rankled, although his bond to his current Paladin had given him an idea as to why. The green Paladin had been hurt somehow, and could not be moved.

_**:Healpod:** _ the yellow Lion reminded him, and he was forced to concede; medical equipment was very tricky to transport.

The black Lion grumbled that she might have finished that repair cycle by now, and could perhaps be rescued. There were ways, after all, to transport a Paladin to safety without tearing holes in a ship.

_**:Danger:** _ the red Lion reminded him, and that was also true. A monster hunted in that region of space now, and monsters always homed in on the weak and injured first, and they often turned on those who denied them their prey.

The black Lion growled; he feared no danger, and he yearned to destroy evil.

_And several levels below him in her royal bedchamber, Princess Allura scowled in her sleep._

_**:Information:** _ the blue Lion suggested. They needed more. What did their absent sister fear? How was her Paladin hurt? What was the nature of their current situation?

That was so; wars were won and lost on the strength of one's knowledge. They would go and gather more.

_**:Alone?:** _ the yellow Lion asked, startled.

_And far below them, Hunk shifted uneasily in his bed._

The Paladins could not come, the black Lion told them. They were too bright, too unpredictable, and far too easy to track. They were young, with all the foolishness that youth could bring to bear.

_**:Reconnaissance:** _ the red Lion agreed; this was a job that required mechanical precision.

_And far below them, deep in his slumber, Keith growled eagerly, glad to be taking action at last._

_**:Redemption:** _ the blue Lion concurred quietly. They had failed a packmate. They would not fail again.

_And far below them in his sleep, Lance hugged his pillow and bared his teeth._

The Lions were in agreement. Without moving so much as a millimeter on the physical plane, they leaped away into the Mindscape together, seeking truth in all of its forms. The trail that the Paladins had given them was still strong, for all that the ship carrying their absent member had moved, and they picked it up instantly. The system with its red star and asteroid belts was hardly more than a place to pause and pick up the new trail, although there were signs that the monster had been searching here as well. They could feel its frustration hot on the aether, and were glad that this was so.

The trail led them to strange places. The ship tended to travel in short, random hops, occasionally interspersed with longer jumps. Sometimes these led to populous systems with several living worlds and dozens of stations, and other times to stretches of desolate void. Other times, the ship had paused for a while, and in those places the aether rang with the memory of brief battles—some of which carried the distinct tang of technomancy. The Paladin was alive, that was clear, and active, but the green Lion was not. No trace of Leonine battle-fury graced those scenes, which was worrying. Had the green Lion been incapacitated somehow? Was her Paladin unable to fly her? The black Lion growled and increased his speed, the others keeping pace grimly behind him. Whoever had harmed either of them would pay dearly for that insult.

They found the ship at last, in a dim little binary system where two red dwarf stars danced a slow waltz with each other, hovering in orbit around a worn-out little planet where great empires had once flourished and fallen. They approached with care, seeking for any trace of the monster and finding none; still, caution was advisable. The ship was old for its kind, and had seen many, many lives pass through its halls and cabins. Such craft often held surprises for the unwary. Nothing untoward happened, however, and this emboldened the black Lion enough to call out.

_**:Shechethra:** _ he summoned, the leaf-rustle name glittering briefly on the aether.

And then she was there, springing up from the ship's docking bay, and they saw that she was unhurt. This was a great relief to them, for very little could defeat their self-repair mechanisms, and it was never good to meet with something that could do so. The green Lion was less than pleased to see them, however, and growled in exasperation.

_**:Go!:** _ she insisted,  **_:Go home!:_ **

_**:Come away:** _ the yellow Lion pleaded,  **_:come with us:_ **

The green Lion roared a refusal.

_**:Home:** _ the blue Lion coaxed,  **_:safety, healing, help:_ **

_**:Too dangerous:** _ the green Lion snarled,  **_:not now. Not for a time. There are things that_ must _happen:_ **

The red Lion hissed, not understanding, and the others were just as puzzled. She yearned for the pack's completion even as her Paladin did, and her Paladin had powerful emotions. _**:What things?:**_

The green Lion gave him the exasperated look that all geniuses tended to give people who couldn't calculate more than two or three moves ahead. Lying chained up in a docking bay was boring, but it did give one time for thought, and contemplation of the future was always a worthy line of study. She considered trying to translate portions of the simpler probability math into something that this bruiser could comprehend, but that was forestalled by a tremor at the heart of her being—her Paladin, whom she had been in near-constant contact with for months now, had become aware of their conversation. She dreamed, but lucidly, and stared at the visiting Lions with surprise.

_Who are you?_ The green Paladin asked.

_**:We are the Lions:** _ the black Lion said before Shechethra could speak,  **_:we are of your pack. Come home, Paladin. Bring Shechethra back to us:_ **

The Paladin wavered, uncertain. She could not help but feel in her heart that he spoke the truth, but she glanced up at her Lion uneasily before emoting a refusal. _I can't. Shechethra says it's too dangerous, and I trust her. I have friends here, and family, and if I leave them now they'll die. We're being hunted. You shouldn't be here!_

The black Lion stepped forward and lowered his great head to look into her eyes.  _**:We will protect you. Come home:** _

_I can't!_ The Paladin shimmered with anguish.  _Not right now._ Listen _to me! Shechethra can't move. I can't either until we deal with the Captain. We've got a lot of people hunting us, and without me here to help, hundreds of people are going to die. They helped me when they didn't have to, and I owe them. I'm not leaving them to face the enemy alone. Do you know where we are?_

_**:We do:** _ the yellow Lion said sadly, but without protest; one of her virtues was that of acceptance.  _**:The Castle brings us. The pack follows your trail:** _

_ Good! Keep doing that. Give us time.  _ The Paladin rubbed at her neck, eyes calculating.  _ Once the Captain's out of the way, that'll make things easier. He's not a good person. _

The Lions groaned in disappointment, but they could not force her. She had made her choice, and that meant more on this plane than it did on the physical one.  **_:Take care, Paladin:_ ** the blue Lion urged,  **_:our own pilots and the others are very worried about you:_ **

The green Paladin swallowed hard, tears starting in her eyes. _I know that something bad happened, but I can't remember what. Are they all right?_

The red Lion rumbled a reassurance. _**:They, like you, were hurt. They, like you, are healing. They are coming. Once the pack is reunited, we will meet with what threatens us and defeat it.:**_

_Good,_ the Paladin said, wiping tears away. _Now, go home. You're putting us all at risk out here._

The Lions sighed and turned away, the black one lingering for a time. He was not accustomed to failure or to disappointment, and his pride forbade him from accepting either. Both the green Lion and her Paladin had to shoo him away, much to his annoyance, but leave he did, however reluctantly.

 

When their Paladins awoke the following morning, they did so with very little enthusiasm and a feeling of vague disappointment, and Allura was downright irritable. This, of course, did not go unnoticed.

“My Lion is sulking about something,” Lance said glumly, poking at his breakfast in a desultory fashion. For some reason, he was craving peanut butter, and he didn't even like the stuff.

“Mine, too,” Keith said, glancing around the table at Allura and Hunk, who nodded. “I think that they tried something last night, and it didn't go well.”

There was a grunt from the far end of the room that made them look in that direction; the dragons were generally quiet at mealtimes, eating their own portions and listening to the conversations of the others, but rarely commented on them. Tilla made a soft series of chirps and churrs before turning back to her meal.

Modhri smiled grimly. “She says that the Lions attempted a search-and-rescue of their own, and that Pidge and her Lion turned them down. Our little witch is up to something, and that something is far too important to have those big cats crashing around in the middle of it.”

Lizenne vented a low chuckle. “The distress you feel is their distress. The bond works both ways, remember, and your Lions are proud beasts. In a way, this is good for them. What was that bit of wisdom that Shiro taught you, Keith?”

“'Patience yields focus,'” Keith said, and winced. “I think that Red just gave me the stinkeye.”

The others chuckled. Kolanth smiled and speared another sausage off of the common platter. “I, for one, am encouraged. If she is up to something, then she is whole and active, and whatever comes looking for her will doubtless receive a surprise. Remember that her mind is her greatest asset, and that she knows how to use it!”

“Yeah, and she's mean when she's provoked,” Hunk said with a smile.

Allura smiled as well, recalling a certain rogue sewing machine. “Indeed she is.”

 

Varda woke with a sob and a terrible sense of loss. With a whimper of distress, she kicked her way free of the tangle of blankets she lay in and half-fell out of her thelwisk-seed fort. Sizzling sounds and savory smells drew her into the main kitchen area where she found some comfort in the form of an elderly cook. Ronok was a little surprised when a pair of small arms seized him from behind, but his hands never paused in their work. He flipped his panload of chulkas with his usual skill, finished sauteing them, and poured them out onto a large tray before reaching around to pat Varda on the head.

“Bad night, girl?” he asked.

“I had a dream,” she said, migrating around to his front and resting her head against his middle. “I dreamed that some of my family came to take me home, but I couldn't come. I couldn't, because you all would die if I did.”

Ronok sighed and stroked her back gently. “It's always hard when reality mixes with dreams. I thank you for your care regardless, love. I'd be terribly upset if you vanished.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she murmured into his apron.

Ronok chuckled. “I will have to ask you to get a little distance; I'm working with hot oil here and I don't want to drip on you. Just you sit over there and shell me out a bale of fellicks, would you? I've been getting requests for talaupas, and no talaupa is complete without fellicks.”

Varda did as she was told. A large bale of dry, bristly fellick pods, a pair of gloves, and two bowls had already been set out on a nearby worktable, and helping Ronok would get her first crack at whatever breakfast was being made. “I've never tried talaupas,” she said, sliding the gloves on.

“Nor will you,” Ronok replied, dumping another bowlful of chopped chulkas into the pan. “A lot of the ingredients are toxic to your kind. You'll get a nice big plate of umsihl hash and fried eggs when I'm done with this lot. Two eggs or three?”

“Two, please,” she said, cracking open a pod and spilling a handful of small, star-shaped seeds out into a bowl. “Do you think they'll come looking for me, Ronok? It's been months since Yantilee and Haswick found me.”

Ronok didn't reply immediately, but finished frying that panload of chulkas before answering. “I can't say. What little you do remember of your kin has been good, so it is likely that they are looking for you. The universe is a very big place, however, and depending on how you got all the way out here, it could be a while before they ever come close. I've heard stories of people who were lost for decades before they were found. In any case, girl, the _Quandary_ won't be willing to give you up.”

Varda growled irritably. “I'm too valuable to allow to escape, I know. Plosser won't ever let me go!”

“It's not just Plosser,” Ronok replied quietly. “Yantilee's grown fond of you, and Kezz, and Haswick, and Doc, and even Nasty. Quite a lot of the rest of the crew have taken a shine to you as well, and you're already aware of how I feel about the matter. Let us be your family until your own comes for you, and with luck, you'll be able to visit us now and again afterward.”

“All right,” Varda said, and concentrated on the fellick pods until a steaming plateful of food was set down next to her.

She spent much of the rest of the day helping Ronok prepare the enormous variety of foods that the _Quandary's_ crew habitually ate. One of the reasons that the ship held onto its crew members was that they ate so well; Plosser might be a hard Captain to serve, but he did not short their rations. Ronok told her at one point that the surly old fellow had been a soldier once himself, and that all armies, regardless of race, creed, or species, marched on their digestive systems. No military would obey its commanders if the soldiers weren't being fed properly, and that quite a few of those peoples weren't above roasting and eating those commanders that were foolish enough to stint them. Something about that statement was familiar to her as well, and made her smell ghrembak stew and sausages for a moment before fading away.

They were just taking a nice big batch of peanut-butter cookies out of the largest oven when the call to battlestations rang through the P.A. System. Varda shifted nervously, but the Captain didn't demand that someone find her and bring her to the bridge. Ronok merely grunted and continued in his work. “He's found easy prey, then. Bring over the big bin, if you would.”

Varda nodded glumly and complied. Probably another small trader, or someone's personal transport. “Will we have to go and help unload the boarding shuttles?”

Ronok nodded. “Assuming that they don't escape. The _Quandary's_ big and strong, but she's not particularly fast or agile. Plosser's been meaning to get that fixed, but the budget's always just a little short. Morleth never wins big at the casinos, you see.”

Varda humphed, well-aware of the Purser's gambling habit. “That's stupid.”

“It's an addiction, like Doc's,” Ronok agreed. “Unfortunately, this one can hurt others. I don't know what hold Morleth's got over Plosser, but it's tight enough to allow for a bit of embezzlement. There, now, cookies all put away, dinner prepped, and even dessert's all ready to go. Let's grab a float-pallet or two and head over to the docking bay just in case.”

They arrived well in advance, which allowed Varda a little time with her Lion. She hated seeing the proud robot lashed down as she was, but was always glad for Shechethra's company. It was enormously reassuring to sit between the huge forepaws for a little time, risky though it was to come out in the open like this. This time, she had nearly a half-hour before the shuttles returned.

The haul was a big one. Not only were the freight shuttles loaded with goods and treasures, but several small fighter craft had been disabled and captured, and so had the ship that those fighters had been protecting. It was a very pretty medium-sized yacht, painted in cream and gold, and was obviously very high-class. Ronok, however, watched with troubled eyes as the docking drones maneuvered it into a spare slot in the bay. “Not good,” Varda heard him mutter.

“What's wrong?” she whispered, creeping forward for a better look.

Ronok nodded at the yacht. “That's a royal craft. The personal yacht of the Haidrimmot royal family, I think. Damn. That's going to get us into real trouble. I didn't know that we were anywhere near Halidex, and we'd better not be if the Crown Prince was aboard that ship.”

Varda gulped. “Bad enemies, huh?”

“You could say that.” Ronok shifted uneasily and peered at the freight shuttles. “They surrendered to the Empire only a little while ago, and the King has managed to wrangle a deal with the Governor that protects his people from the usual abuses in return for a big yearly tribute. One of the conditions is that the local monarchy remains in power, unmolested by outsiders—that's a guarantee on the part of the Governor, by the way, and he won't like if if his meal ticket gets abstracted by some flagrant idiot of a Juskoran pirate captain. We can take on a cruiser or two if you're helping, love. I don't think that we're going to be able to handle whole fleets. For all I know, he'll call in Prince Lotor himself. Ah! There. They're bringing out the prisoners now.”

Varda watched as a couple of burly pirates led a string of bound and collared Halidexans out of one shuttle. They were a tall, slender people with turquoise skin dappled with coin-sized black spots, with ridges of long silky greenish hair that ran from slightly above the eyes to the base of the neck. Some were obviously upper servants and guardsmen, and others were pilots that had been pulled from the disabled fighters. She then saw Yantilee lead out a shorter string of richly-dressed prisoners, the sight of which made Ronok hiss.

“Ah, Gods,” he groaned. “That's the King himself, and the Queen, the Crown Prince... and the two younger Princes and the little Princess. Double damn, and may Kuphorosk carve his bones into coathangers. Plosser's going to demand a genuine king's ransom, and he's not going to get it.”

“What do you mean, Ronok?” Varda asked.

Ronok cast her a worried look. “The King has a rebellious younger brother and a clutch of nefarious cousins, all just waiting in the wings to usurp the Throne. They have no reason to want the King and his family back. This will start a civil war on Halidex, which the Governor is not going to stand for. If things really get out of hand, their whole race may well be enslaved or eradicated. We're in trouble either way.”

Varda stared at the royal family, some of whom looked very young, and she could hear the Princess's frightened weeping from where she stood. “What will happen to them?”

Ronok shrugged. “If he can't get the Halidexans to pay up, he'll sell them as slaves somewhere else. They're pretty enough to be popular in some ports, and there are rich people out there who like to collect deposed royals.”

Varda growled, suddenly furious at their plight. “That's wrong.”

Ronok gave her a stern look. “I know, but don't you dare interfere, girl. Plosser will kill you if you try anything, and damn the consequences. Yantilee's already speaking to key members of the crew, and may make her move before anything happens. Leave be! You're not big enough to get away with whatever heroics you might be planning.”

Varda gritted her teeth and glared angrily at Plosser's swaggering figure as he came to gloat at the prisoners. “Yes, Uncle Ronok.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! Eat lots, enjoy family both blood-related and chosen, and just have fun. Meanwhile, feel free to drop a comment or kudos, because it's been scientifically proven that they make turkey taste a thousand times better. No, really! Would I lie to you?


	7. Under New Management

Chapter 7: Under New Management

 

Three nights later, Varda lay wide-awake and glaring in frustrated fury at the underside of the tarp that roofed her thelwisk-seed fort. Negotiations were not going well, Haswick had reported earlier that evening; Ronok's analysis of the Halidexan situation had been spot-on. While the Halidexans themselves were in a panic over the abduction of their King and his family, the usurping royal brother and his sinister cousins weren't in any hurry to rescue them. They were, in fact, more interested in recovering the yacht, which the King's brother had been coveting ever since its maiden voyage. The Governor was currently biding his time, and Haswick suspected that certain negotiations between him and the usurper were already underway. Worse, Yantilee was moving far too slowly in his own machinations—out of caution, of course, since even the Elikonian had to progress with care in matters of mutiny. Varda felt helpless in this matter, and she was getting very tired of that feeling.

“No,” she said, thumping a fist down hard on one fragrant sack. “No, no, _no._ I won't stand for this! Sorry, Uncle Ronok, but I can't keep my promise.”

Varda rolled over and slid out of her fort, bare feet making no sound on the decking as she made her way out through the secret passages in the back of the storeroom. She'd spent a lot of time with the three Nantileeri lately, learning the secret ways through the ship—particularly the portion that connected the ship's brig to the docking bay as well as her own usual haunts. That study served her well now, and she came out only little distance away from her goal in one of the many junkrooms scattered around the ship. Like all large buildings, the _Osric's Quandary_ had numerous places where crewmen would pile up leftover items of potential use and then forget about them, and Varda had spotted a winner only yesterday. The brig was guarded by one of the larger, uglier crewmen at all times, and her little punch dagger was not going to make much of an impression on Plosser's favorite thugs. The three-foot length of slender titanium pipe she lifted from a stack of plumbing remnants, on the other hand, could make a dent in _anything._ Nasty had shown her a neat trick for bringing large threats down to her level only this morning, and she was eager to try it out.

She was in luck, as it turned out. The guard on duty was Nolroop, who was someone whom Varda wouldn't feel at all guilty for whacking with the pipe. He was nearly as big and ugly as the Gantar, and he just loved to taunt prisoners. He'd made a few ugly suggestions to Varda herself once before Yantilee had made it clear that continuing to do so would result in his being reduced to a greasy smear on the decking, but nobody had warned him off of these captives. She paused for a moment by the brig's open doors—he was sloppy about proper procedure, too—and observed him at work. Yes, there he stood, looming over the helpless inmates with a horrible fanged smile on his warty face while he murmured vile things at them in his soft, insinuating voice. Describing the numerous ugly things that could befall an underage slave girl, she noted, which was one of his favorite subjects of conversation. It meant, however, that he was not paying attention to anything else, which was too good an opportunity to waste. Varda sprang forward and swung the pipe as hard as she could, striking Nolroop across the backs of his knees. Nolroop shrieked in shock and pain as his legs buckled under him, and she silenced that noise with another swing at the back of his skull. He slumped to the floor, quite unconscious, and Varda wasted no time in pulling the key ring from his belt. “I'm getting you out of here,” she told the surprised prisoners as she started unlocking doors, “all of you. No arguing! I'm not going to let Plosser sell you to anyone. Now, hold still and let me get those bonds off.”

The Halidexans gave her no trouble at all, although the King did ask her a question while she was unlocking his collar. “Is this wise of you, young lady?”

“Of course it isn't,” Varda hissed back, noting that these people were too tall for most of the secret passageways. “I'm going to get into a lot of trouble if we're caught, but I'm doing it anyway. Your brother and cousins are trying to steal your planet from you, and that's going to get absolutely everyone in more trouble than I can shake that pipe at. Plosser's cunning, but he's too greedy to be sensible a lot of the time.”

“Much like my relatives,” the King observed dryly. “Lead us, young hero. Will you allow me to unlock your collar?”

She gestured a negative. “These keys won't work. Red ring, see? My key's on the yellow ring, and Plosser's got that. I'd like to come with you, but if I leave the ship, the collar will explode and blow my head off. I'll be all right.”

She passed the keys over to the King's guardsmen so that they could free each other while she and the Prince hauled Nolroop into one of the cells and locked him in, and within minutes, she was leading the entire crowd back toward the one set of passages that could accommodate them. Even so, it was a tight fit, and there was a certain amount of ladylike bad language from one of the portlier servants in the more cramped sections. The tunnel ended in a cleaning-supplies closet about halfway to the docking bay, nowhere near close enough for Varda's comfort, but the only tunnels that would get them closer were far too small for the Halidexans. “We'll have to make a run for it,” she told them. “If we're lucky, everyone will still be asleep. If we're not... well... run _really_ fast, okay?”

“No daring escape without drama, eh?” one of the guardsmen chuckled. “Carry the children, men, and we'll go as quickly as we may. I've still got the yacht's emergency key on me.”

“Remind me to promote you if we survive this,” the King commented. “Lead on, Lady.”

Varda opened the door a crack and peered out, seeing no one, and led her followers at a brisk pace down the long hall. The very walls seemed to observe their passage even though she knew that the security vidcorders along this stretch were on the fritz again—deliberately so; she'd pulled the wires herself earlier while greasing a vent fan. Unfortunately, she could do nothing about insomniacs. They were only a few hundred meters from the bay when a shout went up behind them; Brenat, whose wake-sleep cycle corresponded stubbornly to a distant star, and who could move extremely quickly when he had a reason to. “Run!” she shouted, even as Brenat hit one of the panic buttons.

Alarms screamed and angry pirates poured out of their cabins as they made the last desperate dash into the bay, and Varda heard Plosser's angry voice shouting commands through the PA system. Varda put on an extra burst of speed, whipping out her punch dagger and using it to try another trick that Nasty had taught her. All of the doors to the ship's main areas could be remote-locked, but the process was slow, and if you jammed a thin, strong object between the doors in just the right place, they could be jimmied open. That exact spot was easy to find, thankfully; other people over the years had discovered the secret and the marks of their efforts were very visible. The effort of forcing the doors bent the blade nearly into a right angle, but it got them open, and just in time; the angry horde was not far behind them, and Varda barely had time to shut and lock the door behind them. That would not hold them for long, she knew, and she exhorted her followers into a sprint toward the yacht. That, at least, was easy to find in the cavernous bay, it being the largest craft currently in residence. Upon reaching the main hatch, the clever guardsman thrust the small prince he was carrying into the arms of a wheezing maidservant and turned his back, pulling the spare key out of its hiding place in the depths of his uniform and jamming it into the lock. Varda, in the meantime, rushed to a nearby control station and opened the bay doors, careful to engage the atmosphere shield as she did so. Kezz had told her that someone had forgotten to do that once, and the ship had lost nearly a third of its crew to that stupid mistake. Ironically, it had originally been designed in as a deterrent to pirates. Pirates couldn't do any raiding if they'd been swept out into the vacuum of space, after all. The King was waiting for her when she came back out.

“What are you _doing?”_ she hissed at him. “Get on your ship and get out of here, now!”

He shook his head and touched her forehead with one hand, possibly in some sort of benediction. “I had to stop to thank you. We will always remember this; if we should meet again, you may ask any favor of us. Any favor at all.”

The far doors screeched open, and Varda muttered one of Ronok's best cursewords. She grabbed the king and spun him around, giving him a shove toward his yacht. “Fine! Thanks! I'll be sure to look you up later, but get going! Now! _Go!”_

This time he got the hint and ran back to his ship, and it lifted off the moment that the hatch closed. Hot wind from the yacht's thrusters nearly blew her over, but the fancy little ship was out and gone within seconds, and she saw the sparkle of their warp drive kicking in a moment later. _Safe._ Up, out, and away, and with no possibility of pursuit. The taste of triumph was hot in her mouth, and she turned to face the consequences of her actions without fear.

The crowd of pirates didn't worry her much. Most of them looked worried, confused, or surprised, and one or two of them were trying to hide admiration. It was Plosser, stinking of bad cheese and his one red eye blazing with tightly-controlled rage that might have given her pause if she hadn't already been flying. “You should not have done that, slave girl,” he breathed, voice trembling with fury. “Oh, you should not have done that. I've killed others for far less.”

“I know,” she said defiantly, “and it's a shame that no one's returned the favor. You're greedy, Plosser, and that's going to get this ship taken and every crewman executed if you don't rein it in! Kill me, and you'll have lost the only thing that can help the ship escape that fate.”

Plosser snarled and snatched her up by the shirt, pulling her up to eye level with him. “That's so, slave girl, but you'll learn obedience yet. I'll have you hamstrung to keep you from running, and blinded to— _aaagh!”_

Varda had spat squarely in his one good eye, and he flung her away in order to claw at his face. She landed badly, and felt her hip and shoulder bruise instantly when she hit the floor. Plosser was frothing with rage now, and she scrambled to her feet, but not quite quickly enough to avoid the fist that connected hard with the side of her head. There was a flash of pain, a burst of stars, and she knew nothing more.

 

When she finally woke again, it was within the now-familiar confines of the healpod, and an equally-familiar face was looking in on her. “Good morning,” Doc said, handing her her glasses, “and how are you feeling?”

Varda blinked, remembered what had happened to land her in the pod again, and stated in a dry voice: “Not. Sorry.”

Doc vented an amused snort and leaned back against an exam table with a wry glance at someone outside of her field of vision. “Pay up, Yantilee. I diagnose a case of chronic heroism, quite untreatable, and if this keeps up, possibly terminal.”

There was a deep grunt, and a large coin was flipped neatly into Doc's hand. “Being a hero doesn't make her any less of a silly idiot, although others will have more to say about that than me,” Yantilee said in her usual mild tone. “It was only a matter of time before she did something like this. At least she survived it.”

“Barely,” Doc retorted, tucking the coin away in a pocket and turning to Varda. “Young lady, you are lucky to be alive. Plosser managed to break most of the bones in your body before he keeled over himself; interestingly, your saliva is extremely toxic to Juskorans. He'll recover, but he damned near lost his eye.”

Varda slipped her glasses on with a prim little sniff. “I'm still not sorry. He was going to sell those people—some of them were children! He deserves to go blind, anyway.”

“He may well yet, if he doesn't use the medicines I gave him. Speaking of which--” Doc caught her expertly by the nose and poured a vial of something that tasted terrible down her throat. “You were in this pod for ten solid days, girl. Plosser's vision might be fuzzy at the moment, but he'll be seeking vengeance soon enough, and no doubt he's got one of his cronies watching this infirmary with orders to pounce if you set one foot outside of it. He intends to keep you in a cage from now on.”

“No!” Varda snapped and scrambled to get out of the pod, only to fall directly into a pair of Yantilee's hands.

Yantilee smiled thinly. “A cage wouldn't hold you for long, anyway, nor would certain of the crew allow it. You have friends aboard this ship, Varda. Why didn't you tell anyone what you were planning?”

Varda glared defiantly at Yantilee. “I had to use the secret tunnels, and none of you guys are small enough to fit through them except Holl, Lon, and Dwesk, and none of them can keep quiet, much less keep a secret. I had to do this alone!”

Yantilee sighed. “Are you saying that Nasty isn't your friend, then? He's only a claw's length taller than you are, and he lives to sneak. Yon Unilu is furious that you didn't come to him to ask for backup.”

Varda uttered a contrite little squeak. She'd completely forgotten about him! “Sorry,” she moaned, “I think... I think that I'm the smallest person in my family, and I'm used to doing small-person things on my own. I never even considered asking for help! Oh, _cronasp,_ is Ronok all right?”

“You nearly frightened him to death, Varda,” Doc said solemnly. “Kezz and Haswick had to talk him down before he did something that would have gotten him killed, and he's checked up on you every day. Don't be surprised if he turns you over his knee and swats you a good one across the rump before sending you to bed with no dessert. He's lost so much. Too much, really, and I'm amazed that he hasn't gone mad from the blows his life has dealt him.”

Varda whimpered guiltily, mortified at her thoughtlessness toward someone who loved her, too horrified at her own foolish behavior to speak.

Yantilee snorted in amusement. “Finally sinking in, is it? I'll take you back to the mess hall so that you can apologize to him properly, and to make peace with Nasty. I've a few things that I need to say to the supper crowd, anyway.”

Varda looked up worriedly. “You said that this place was being watched...”

“Yes, but not all that closely.” Yantilee straightened up and pulled at the collar of her shirt. She did wear them occasionally, usually when she was sloughing a layer of old scales, so that the delicate new ones wouldn't dry out too fast. They were always very loose, and were kept secured by her belt. Varda found herself sliding down inside the garment to bump up against the fine scales on her belly. There were ridges along her ribs, she noticed, knobs of harder scales that were almost like horn.

“I'm female at the moment,” Yantilee said calmly, “just brace your feet against my belt and hang on to the big scales on my flanks. You aren't heavy enough to cause any damage, and nobody'll see you in there.”

This was just possible, but it struck her as weird to press herself up against her friend's torso like that, and it made Varda feel like a baby monkey, whatever that was. Ridiculous though it was, it worked, and Varda found herself being shaken out onto a stool by the mess hall counter a short time later.

“Here she is, Ronok,” Yantilee said to someone behind her, “safe, sound, and surly, just as ordered.”

Varda squeaked as a hand gripped her shoulder and a soft voice murmured in her ear, “And just where were you going so late at night, young lady?”

The words alone would have struck a chord in her, but it was the tone of relief poorly masked by false sternness that made her spin around and lunge over the counter to wrap her arms around him. “I'm sorry,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder, “I'm sorry for scaring you like that, Uncle Ronok. Not for why I did it, but I'm sorry anyway.”

He vented a shuddering sigh and held her close. “I'm not all that surprised that you went ahead with that rescue. Doc tells me that you've got a ripe case of heroism, which is a requirement for those brave enough to bond with Lions. I just wish that you had some better sense. Hah. Who am I kidding? Young girls, especially powerful witch girls, tend to leap first and look later, if at all. I just wish that it wasn't so nerve-wracking for the rest of the family. You get no cookies tonight, you little brat, and let that teach you.”

Varda would have protested, but another familiar voice cut in, sounding very upset. “No cookies ever again would be more appropriate! To take that sort of foolish action, to defy the Captain's will, to injure a fellow crewman, to deprive the ship of a big chunk of loot, to release valuable hostages, to meddle in planetary politics, and to do it all without backup—without inviting _ME?_ You _herpaderp!”_

There were sounds of amusement from around the room, and Varda had to giggle damply into Ronok's apron before turning to face the irate Unilu. “Hi, Nasty.”

The goblinish little alien, his face flushing a darker olive in anger, hissed derisively and waved a slim finger in her face. “Oh, don't you 'hi, Nasty' me. First rule of pulling a heist—in any culture, so you've got no excuse—is to _never_ do it alone! You've got to have a lookout, a getaway driver, a partner, or a second gun. Those stupid 'lone thief' vids are myths, mere romantic stories to distract the ignorant long enough for you pick their pockets! Solo operations are for assassins and professional spies only, and most of those won't work without a team either! You... you _hero,_ you! _Herpaderp,_ I say, and be glad that I'm still willing to teach you anything at all!”

He'd said 'hero' as though it were an insult, and as for the other word... “What does _herpaderp_ mean, Nasty? It sounds familiar, but I can't remember why.”

Nasty growled, but simmered down a little. “Ancient Unilu insult. It means something like 'complete and total brain-dead idiot', which you haven't yet convinced me that you're not. And yes, calling an Unilu a hero is also an insult—historically, anyway. We're natural pirates, remember? Or at least we were before the Galra forced us into their idea of civilized behavior.”

“It's easier to tax an honest businessman than it is to hunt down a swindler,” Ronok said, putting a bowl of ghrembak stew down in front of Varda. “If it makes you feel any better, Nasty, I paid my taxes too, and never saw any return for that service.”

“Just goes to show that you shouldnt've bothered.” Nasty sneered and made a crude gesture, then turned his glare back to Varda. “Well? Don't I get an apology too?”

Varda winced. “Yes, okay, sorry Nasty. I really did forget to ask you. I'm the shortest person in my family, and I wind up having to go solo most of the time.”

“You've been on this ship for nearly five months!” Nasty snarled. “You remember that, but you can't remember your own knife instructor? _Herpaderp!_ Promise me that you won't leave me out of the fun again, girl, then eat your stew. Perhaps the yurosk powder in it will bestow the good sense that the Gods gave little beetles upon you, 'cause you can't come up with any of your own.”

“I promise,” Varda replied meekly, picking up her spoon. “I will never go on a rescue again without you as my backup Ninja, honest.”

Nasty blinked and gave her a sidelong, suspicious look. “What's a Ninja?”

Varda frowned, sipping at her stew. Where had that come from? “I think... I think that I bit one once. On the ankle.”

“I don't want to know what they taste like, I want to know what they are.” Nasty growled.

Ghostly facts rose up out of the depths of her mind. “They... they wear black and hide their faces, and they're extremely good at martial arts and swordfighting. They're very secretive and hard to find, and there are legends of them having weird powers like... like running over the surface of water, and jumping huge distances, and vanishing into thin air. That's right, I think one of my family is related to them. He's got a knife like they do, and it's got this little glowing symbol on it that looks like... drat. Sorry Ronok, I need to play with my food a little.”

She dipped a finger into her stew and drew a jagged, vaguely sword-shaped squiggle on the counter. Nasty froze, staring at it in shock. “Marmora,” he said in a thin little voice. “You _bit_ a Blade of Marmora?”

Varda gave him a puzzled look. “Uh-huh. He got between me and the food. What's a Marmora?”

Nasty was having real trouble with this. “You bit a Blade of Marmora and _you're still alive?”_

“I did apologize to him later,” she said. “Who are they, Nasty?”

Nasty whimpered, clutching at his head with all four hands. “Only the most elite, secretive, and sole surviving group of Galran resistance fighters in the Empire. They've been trying to topple the Emperor for hundreds of years, and he's been trying to destroy them for hundreds of years, and they're so good at not getting exterminated that they've become legends and bogeymen to the general public, _and you bit one on the ankle and lived to tell about it.”_

“He didn't really mind,” Varda said slowly, spooning up another bite of stew. “After I tickled that Ghamparva behind the ears, none of them were willing to argue with me.”

Nasty gurgled in outrage, staring at her in frank disbelief. “You are _yashukking_ me. Why in the name of the Seventeen Scorg-Flavored Hells would you even want to touch one of those monsters?”

“They were going to get his blood and guts all over the floor, and I didn't want torture in the house.” Varda replied primly. “My way was better, but it kind of upset them.”

Nasty groaned. “I'm no Marmoran, or even a Galra, and _I'm_ upset about it. I really hope that you washed your hands thoroughly afterward. They're evil. I mean, Plosser's bad, and that Gantar's disgusting, and pretty much all of us are nefarious, and hey, I'm Nasty, but they're _evil._ You don't want to get that on you. What were you doing anywhere near either group, is what I want to know.”

Varda shrugged, slurping stew. “I don't know.”

The Unilu vented a small, frustrated scream and waved his fists in the air, bringing them down hard on the counter. “Girl, if you ever get your memories back, you will tell me all of them. All of them!” he grabbed her by the shoulders and began shaking her vigorously. “Every last detail! If even one of those things you've just said has been true, you've got a tale there to throw the Loremasters into a tizzy, and you can't remember more than a fragment or two of it at a time, and it's driving me mad!”

“Okay, okay!” Varda yelped, nearly falling off of her stool. “I'll tell you everything--” and then she saw the angry look in his eyes. “Oh, wait, that's insulting isn't it? Sure, I'll tell you everything... but what's it worth to you?”

Nasty's face split into a sly grin, eyes sparkling with sudden humor. _“Now_ you're talking. I've a fleck of pocket lint going spare that should do. Those memories can't be worth much if you've just gone and forgot them all in one lump like that.”

Varda stuck her tongue out at him. “Don't be stupid. The security on them is so good that even I have limited access. I might accept your firstborn child, if you can prove its provenance.”

Nasty cackled appreciatively. “Fat chance. There's not another Unilu in this whole quadrant, much less one I'd hop into bed with, and your story's not worth a _zadjug_ anyway. Might be worth a half-bucket of iron filings, I've got plenty of those.”

Varda giggled. “If Unilu ladies are as rare as that out here, then you've probably forgotten what _zadjug's_ like, if you ever had a chance to learn at all. I'll take the deed to your left _pilpic,_ though. You aren't using them.”

Nasty squawked in outrage, but Varda could tell that he was enjoying himself mightily. So was the crowd, which was watching them with great interest, their gazes flicking back and forth like spectators watching a tennis match. They insulted each other inventively, making increasingly ridiculous offers and counter-offers, and it wasn't until they were laughing too hard to continue that their haggling session came to an end. Kezz had to catch Nasty before he could fall out of his chair, and propped the chortling Unilu up against the table. “That's as good a haggling session as any I've seen,” he said, patting Nasty on one shoulder. “Have you been teaching her discourse on the sly, you old purse-cutter?”

“I can't,” Nasty gasped. “She's not Unilu. This is all natural talent.”

Varda had to take off her glasses and wipe them on her shirt. “I've just been watching him and Ronok argue, is all. It's not hard.”

“Oh, you're in trouble, Nasty!” Haswick giggled, “She learns from example! You'll have to teach her everything now!”

“She's not Unilu!” Nasty insisted. “I'm a throwback and a bad enough one that I got myself banished, but there are things that I still won't do. That's one of them, more's the pity.”

Yantilee chuckled. “All that aside, my friends, it is time to speak of other things. It's time we did something about Plosser. I'm tired of him and the way he's running things, and he's got a bad habit of misusing the ship's best assets. Varda, I'll need you to speak with the _Quandary's_ AI, the better to block and confound him.”

“I can't!” Varda said, yanking at her collar. “This thing zaps me whenever I try, remember?”

Yantilee grunted and fished something small out of a belt pouch. “True. Hold still.”

The giant caught her head very gently between a thumb and forefinger, and did something near her neck with another hand. To Varda's astonishment, the collar that she had worn for so long dropped off into Yantilee's palm and was summarily tossed into a waste bin. Varda's surprise was as nothing to Nasty's.

“Where did you get that key?” he demanded. “The yellow key ring doesn't have duplicates!”

She smirked at him, the already small object seemingly minuscule in her huge hands. “Picked Plosser's pocket. Wasn't difficult.”

“You've got hands the size of wheelbarrows!” he yelped angrily, “that's not possible. Who taught you that?”

“My own sergeant, of course, and she had hands bigger'n mine,” Yantilee replied easily. “She held that all youngsters should know how to pick a pocket and lift a purse, and she was right.”

Varda giggled. “Neat! Will you teach me how to do that?”

“Sure, I'll set up a rig when we've the time.” Yantilee said cheerfully.

“ _NO!”_ Nasty howled furiously, waving his fists again. “That's _my_ student, not yours!”

Yantilee grinned at him. “So, teach her.”

“I can't! She's not Unilu.” Nasty somehow managed to look both terribly crestfallen and stubborn at the same time.

Varda, however had a flash of insight and pointed a triumphant finger at him. “Right. My price for my life story is that you will declare me an honorary Unilu for one month--”

Nasty looked very surprised, but pleased nonetheless. “You sly little minx, you.”

“--and then I will use my natural cuteness to wring every last secret out of you!” Varda finished.

Nasty barked a derisive laugh. “Cuteness? Girl, you're the wrong colors, you don't have enough arms, and honorary Unilu or not, you don't know our body language that well. You are not cute.”

Varda clasped her hands over her heart, opened her honey-amber eyes wide, and put on her very best “innocent waif” expression. Nasty jerked away with a look that was half horror and half amusement. “Oh, Gods, yes you are. Oh, it burns!” he howled, collapsing to the floor hooting with laughter. “Help me, help me, oh Lawsy, what am I going to do?”

“Teach me everything,” she said with an evil laugh, “and then you're going to teach my family, because if I'm Unilu, then so are they. Fair's fair.”

“Which this isn't,” Nasty said, clambering back up into his chair, “but you're on, girl.”

“So is the mutiny,” Yantilee said and pulled herself up to her full height, which was sort of like watching a bridge being raised. No matter what was going on around it, it was sure to catch the eye. “Gentlebeings and fellow crew,” Yantilee boomed, “I have decided that Plosser has outlived his usefulness as Captain. We have been overworked, put in unnecessary danger, harassed by his cronies and that filthy pet of his, and made to do things that we otherwise would not do. He has also nearly deprived us of the one individual aboard who can reliably get us good targets and keep us out of trouble. I will allow others the chance of taking his position. Does anyone want this duty?”

There was dead silence in the mess hall then, and every sense organ in the room was fixed firmly upon the Elikonian. Nobody moved or breathed.

Yantilee nodded gravely. “Very well. And those who want to see me at the helm?”

Every hand and manipulatory appendage shot up instantly, and there was even a cheer or two from some of them.

Ronok stood up and swept the room with a glare. “Just remember this, you lot, and if you start grumbling about your choice later, you'll get nothing but boiled flessik hulls for a week. I can do it, I have  _lots._ Be told.”

There were a few groans and chuckles, but still, nobody voiced any objections. Yantilee heaved a huge sigh. “I did not want to have to do this job, but I must. Varda, would you ask the  _Quandary's_ opinion?”

Varda, who had been rubbing at her neck, nodded and reached instinctively for the ship's AI. It met her halfway, to her surprise, in a handshake like one greeting an old friend. “Osric,” she murmured, feeling the ship give her its full attention, “I need a map.”

Suddenly, the image was just  _there_ in her mind, shining like a jewel, every single nook and cranny visible and clear. “I need a screen!” she said, and someone offered her a portable, which just wouldn't do. “Too small!”

“Wall screen,” Ronok said, pointing across the room. “Not good for much unless we're close enough to some planet or other to catch the sports channels.”

Varda found the screen without trouble, and the crowd made impressed and wondering noises as the inner labyrinths of the  _Osric's Quandary_ were displayed to them all.  _“Look_ at that!” someone said, “Th' whole ship's a mektu warren. I mean, I knew that there were secret passages, but not so many.”

“We knew!” Dwesk piped up proudly, her two fellow Nantileeri chirping in concurrence.

“Did you know about this one?” Yantilee asked, indicating a particular passage that was new to Varda.

“Nope,” Lon replied.

“You'll want to check it for bugs, but be careful,” Varda said, highlighting the path. “See? It leads out into space there... oh, hey, but not before passing through the emergency space suit storage room on that side... which isn't all that far from the service ducts that lead into the docking bay. Nice.”

Kezz nodded. “And its other end is in the bridge. That's an escape hatch put in by a previous and unpopular captain, is my guess.”

“I'll lock it down,” Varda said, suiting the word to the deed, and the highlighted passage turned red.

“Good,” Yantilee said approvingly. “Locate Plosser and his Gantar, please, as well as Morleth, Brenat, Vorlenn, Tuschet, Clongass, and Sar'Bulan. Ah, and Nolroop and that team of thugs of his, and lock off all avenues of escape. The _Quandary's_ got too many places to hide, and I'd rather not take any more risks than necessary.”

It was the easiest thing in the world. Varda felt completely within her element for the first time in five months as small symbols appeared at various points on the map, although hanging around with pirates had left its mark upon her—most of those symbols were very rude. Whole areas of the map turned red as she locked down all access to them, although some areas remained open. “Those three blocs are manual-lock only,” she told Yantilee, “I can't touch them from here.”

Yantilee nodded and said, “Nantileeri?”

“On it!” Holl, Lon, and Dwesk chorused and ran out of the room, causing three tiny lizard-shaped icons to appear on the map.

The Elikonian smiled grimly, watching the swift little reptiloids go about their business. “Plosser will regret his habit of holding himself and his best men aloof from the rest of us, I think. Unlock the strongroom, Varda. Your armor and weapon are in there, and you'll want those.”

Varda shot her an eager look. “So, that's where he put them.”

“Oh, yes. That sort of business suit isn't standard-issue, you know.” Yantilee indicated a particular cabin on the map. “That room, there, if the ship hasn't told you already. Plosser nearly killed you, Varda, which gives you the right to take his head. Let us knock him down first, then look for the pink patch under the quills on the back of his neck. Strike that good and hard and the skull will pop right off, a little like Kezz's ears.”

Varda cackled, which made Ronok smile. “To arms, everyone. Let's make this the quickest and neatest mutiny in history.”

Somebody in the crowd raised a hand. “Want we should take 'em alive, Yantilee? Good bounty money on some of 'em. No sense wasting.”

Yantilee was checking the draw on one of her holstered weapons and didn't look up. “Good point. Take what can be caught live, then, and we'll give certain of them a choice. I intend to take us to Imbralth's Moon for a good refitting after we're done, and we'll see what deals we can drive from there. In the meantime, I'll handle the Gantar and space what's left.”

That sounded just fine to the rest of the crew, and so the mutineers headed out, with Yantilee leading and Varda sitting on her upper left shoulder. From that vantage point, she was able to do a quick count of just how many people were on their side. “Yantilee,” she whispered tensely, “we've only got about a third of the crew here, maybe a little more. Everybody else is either sleeping or on night duty.”

“I know,” Yantilee murmured back, “and they'll stay that way. I wasn't idle while you were recovering. Plosser's not a popular Captain, and those who did like him are of two camps—his own personal circle of hangers-on, and those who will either adapt or leave. It's not just new ship parts that we'll be picking up at Imbralth's Moon. I'll not keep those who won't serve the ship willingly.”

Their first stop was the strongroom. Once, perhaps, it had been a small conference room—small by Sikkhoran standards, anyway, and the usual sliding hatch had been replaced some time ago with huge heavy blast doors. It was also the only cabin on the ship that was not reachable by any of the secret tunnels. A wise precaution on a pirate ship, but it meant nothing to someone who had a unique hold on the ship's electronics. The doors slid open easily at their approach, revealing the most valuable portions of loot taken from captured ships. Yantilee lifted Varda down from her shoulder and pointed out a particular item among the glittering contents, and then parked herself in the doorway to keep the crew from temptation. Varda approached the green-and-white suit and helmet with curiosity, and then growing certainty. The armor was exactly her size, and that she knew how much it weighed, the feel of it on her body, and the life-support systems that were built into it. Without a second thought, she discarded the shorts and sweater that she'd been wearing and pulled her armor on. The helmet gave her a little trouble until she took her glasses off and twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Despite that, she felt properly dressed for the first time since she'd come here.

“Better?” Yantilee asked.

“Yeah! You said that I had a weapon, too?”

“Sure. That little crescent-shaped thing, there.”

Varda picked up the object, which was marked with the same green enamel that adorned the armor. “Really? It looks more like a doorknocker—oop!”

The weapon— _bayard,_ she suddenly remembered—hummed into life, showing a brief green forceblade that wasn't all that much different from the punch dagger that she'd ruined. This one, she knew, would never bend nor break, and it had a great many more attributes than a simple sharp edge. When she rejoined the others, there were a few cheers from the crowd. Nasty in particular was very interested in the bayard.

“Compare edges later,” Yantilee told him. “Varda, where are Plosser and the rest now?”

Varda queried the ship, and the ship answered instantly. “They're in the captain's stateroom. I left the doors in his part of the ship unlocked, in case they might all get together in one room where we wouldn't have to go looking for them.” She grinned. “It worked. I've got them all penned up in there, and they really don't like it.”

Someone in the crowd chortled. “That Gantar's in there with them?”

“Yup!”

“Then that's why. The beast hasn't had its bath yet this week, and it stinks worse than Rh'attz's old socks do.”

A portly, tan-and-chestnut-striped fellow who vaguely resembled a badger humphed irritably. “I did my laundry just yesterday.”

“And hung it up in the vents!” someone else snapped. “Again! Do that one more time, Rh'attz, and I'll jam every one of those socks up your--”

“Enough.” Yantilee said, and there was a slight change in the timbre of her voice that was either her authority or her gender was changing again. “Let's get this done. Argue about laundry later.”

The strongroom was quickly closed and locked again, and they headed for the officer's private deck. This was undiscovered country for most of the crew, and no few of them muttered angrily at the luxuries that Plosser had kept for himself. Varda stared at unfamiliar but obviously very high-end items of furniture, rich carpets and hangings, wall art and statuary that had the look of museum-quality work, and devices that she might not have recognized, but that others certainly did. Marring all of this, unfortunately, was the fact that neither Plosser nor his cronies had cleanly habits or the least little bit of aesthetic skill, and the air carried a definite tang of unwashed bodies. Yantilee vented a disgusted _“tuh”_ under her (his?) breath and loosened his weapons in their sheaths. “Be ready,” he warned his followers. “Open the door on my mark, Varda.”

The mutineers split evenly into groups on either side of the door, knowing full well that to be visible was to be a target. Sure enough, when Varda released the locks, a hail of gunfire spewed through the opening and destroyed what might have been a sofa on the far side of the room. Haswick whispered a suggestion into Varda's ear that made her giggle, and she triggered one of the fire-suppression systems in the stateroom, and there were loud squawks of protest from within as the room began to fill up with foam. With a globbering howl of absolute bestial fury, the Gantar charged through the doorway, trailing globs of orange bubbles behind it. Yantilee surged out of the crowd with a bellow of his own that got the Gantar's attention immediately, and it turned and charged at the Elikonian without hesitation. What happened next made every single person in the crew vow to themselves to never get Yantilee mad at them. The huge ex-mercenary moved far faster and with more grace than someone that size should have been able to, and a neat half-pirouette brought the long spiny tail around in a lethal whip-crack that slammed the charging Gantar to the decking with a bone-crushing impact. All four fists were brought to bear on the stunned creature, smashing like pile-drivers. The Gantar barely had time to yowl in shock and agony before one lower hand pulled a broad blade from a sheath on his belt and neatly decapitated it. It was all over in seconds, and Varda could see why the Galra had had so much trouble subduing Yantilee's people.

“Gantar's dead, Plosser,” Yantilee boomed loudly, “I give you this one chance to surrender. Don't waste it.”

The fire-suppression foam was already turning into powder, and a number of loud sneezes were issuing from the stateroom. “Never!” Plosser's voice snarled out of the noise, “I'll not hand off my ship tamely to a _polizusk hamush_ of an exiled lizard, who could not even keep its own command alive for more than a day! _Get them!”_

Plosser's men rushed out, and the fighting began in earnest. Plosser might not have had all that many men in his inner circle, but the ones he did have were among the best fighters in the ship's crew, and they gave as good as they got. Varda soon had good reason to be glad of her armor. And her bayard. It was so useful! Even if her conscious mind didn't know how to use it, her muscles and bones did, and Shechethra's cool green voice in her mind was telling her all sorts of interesting things to do with it. Darting among the taller fighters, she jammed the crackling edge against enemy hips and knees, used the force-shield built into her gauntlet to protect her friends, tangled up the First Mate's overlong limbs in her bayard's force cable and laid him low with a hard jolt of electricity, and blocked the odd blaster bolt when they came her way. A shout from Kezz attracted her attention suddenly, and saw that another of those whip-tail strikes from Yantilee had knocked Plosser down. Seeing her chance for revenge, she darted over, looking for the special spot that Yantilee had told her about. Plosser was hissing like a leaky steam pipe, struggling to get back up, the quills on his neck erect in his fury. Sure enough, there was a patch of pink on the skin beneath, on a knobby structure directly aft of his head, and Varda brought one heel down hard upon it with all the force that she could muster. The head popped off immediately with a short spurt of greenish fluid, and the body jerked once and went limp. His one red eye, however, was still glaring directly at her. Disgusted, Varda kicked the detached skull across the room, where it landed in an ornamental bowl of some sort. Naturally, this inspired some joker to shout _“Gooooaaaalll!”_ , as though she'd just scored the winning shot in a soccer game. It also took the fight out of Plosser's cronies. Their Captain was down, they were badly outnumbered, and there was no hope of escape, so they threw down their weapons and surrendered. Securing the prisoners was the work of a moment, and they were removed to the brig without further trouble.

Varda put away her bayard and went to check on her friends. Haswick had taken a singe from a near miss with a blaster bolt, Kezz was missing an ear but was otherwise fine, Nasty was also intact, but was treating a cut on Ronok's arm and scolding the old Galra, somewhat hypocritically, about running with knives. Possibly nothing on the ship could hurt Yantilee, and injuries among the crew were thankfully light. There was one bit of strange activity around the dead Gantar, however, that drew her attention. Drinmar, a lanky, brown, and leopardish Solnuma, was hopping in circles around the Gantar's severed head, waving his arms about as though trying to fend off a swarm of insects.

“Drinmar, what are you doing?” she asked.

“Hexing dance,” Drinmar replied with grim satisfaction, puffing a bit as he hopped from foot to foot. “I'm condemning this filthy animal's soul to the Hell of Fluffy Bunnies for all eternity.”

Varda stared at him. “Fluffy... Bunnies? You mean fuzzy, long-eared rodents about this big that eat vegetables?”

Drinmar stopped and gave her a funny look and pulled a small scroll out of a pocket. “What kind of messed-up bunnies do you have on your planet? No way, _this_ is a bunny.”

The image on the scroll resembled Earthly rabbits only in that it was fluffy and had long ears. The rest of it was straight out of the nastier sort of horror movie. Varda jerked back with a gurgle of revulsion.

Drinmar nodded. “S'right. That's why I want them chewing on this thing. C'mon, Varda, you dance too. Gantar's been trying to eat you ever since you came aboard, so you've got the right.”

With a shrug, she joined the dance. Why not? A few others did too, if only because it looked like fun. Eventually, Yantilee called her away.

“You might as well unlock the doors now,” Yantilee said, flicking a large hand at the wall. “I'll need to get to the bridge and inform the crew of the takeover and issue some orders. We'll also want to clean up in here a bit. Drinmar, when you're done there, get that carcass to the nearest airlock and space it.”

“Yes, Cap'n!” Drinmar said happily.

“And Plosser too, right?” Varda asked.

Yantilee gestured a negative. “No, he still has his uses. We'll keep him around for the time being.”

Varda stared at him. “What for? He's dead!”

“No he's not,” Yantilee said, reaching down and grasping Plosser's neck and pulling the body up into a sitting position.

To Varda's horror, the pink, knobby end had two tiny red eyes, a snub of a nose, and a mouth. “Hi!” it squeaked in a high-pitched little voice, and Varda jerked away in disgust.

“Juskorans don't die if you knock their heads off,” Yantilee explained calmly. “They've got two brains. The big important one where they keep all of their memories is down here in the pelvic cradle—and yes, that means that the entire race has their heads up their asses.”

“That explains so much,” Varda grumbled sourly.

Yantilee smirked. “It does, doesn't it? The head has a smaller, secondary brain that handles the daily stuff, and sort of does a data dump into the big one about twice a day. If the head gets popped off, the big brain will remember what happened to cause that, and when a new head grows in about six weeks or so later, it—in theory, at least—will also remember what got the last one removed and not do that again.”

“Huh,” Varda said dubiously. “How many heads has he gone through so far?”

Yantilee shrugged. “Three, since I joined the crew.”

“And have any of them been better?”

“No, but he's a bit of a deviant.” Yantilee grunted and waved a hand dismissively. “He's about as smart as a marsh squeaker right now, so we'll use him as scut labor and pop the next head off as soon as it grows back.”

Varda made a face. “I'd rather just get rid of him now.”

Nasty popped up at her side with a sly grin. “Do _you_ want to wash Rh'attz's socks or clean out the grease traps? Nah, it's his turn. Besides, you've got that heroism thing going on. If you do space him, that conscience of yours'll drive you nuts in no time flat. We can sell him later if we get tired of looking at him, I suppose.”

Varda looked back and forth between the two aliens, and then grinned. “I have discovered your deadliest secret,” she giggled.

Nasty's eyebrows rose. “Oh, really? Which one?”

“The worst of them all, which you have let slip in the heat of the moment,” Varda replied ominously. “I have discovered that you are both actually nice people!”

They stared at her in surprise for a moment, and then Yantilee snorted in amusement. “Drat. Now we're going to have to kill her, aren't we?”

“Nah, too valuable,” Nasty said, flipping Varda an ironic salute. “We'll just have to corrupt her a little, is all. I'll get right on it, Captain.”

Yantilee sighed at this reminder and waved a hand at Varda. “Let's get to the bridge. There are some things that need to be said.” He turned to one of the other pirates, who was watching Plosser with a calculating eye. “Pormit, I've seen you angling to join Plosser's in-crowd. He's now your responsibility. This allows you to order him about freely, although you're to keep good care of him, and keep an eye on his head. The moment it's big enough, it comes off again. I'll not have him retaking command of this ship. I will be watching you, and if he gets out of your control, it's you who'll be doing the scut work. Am I clear?”

Pormit, who was a person of large dreams and small talent, gulped and squeaked, “Yes, Captain!” with what he thought might be a salute.

Plosser's tiny, red-eyed head-bud swiveled around with a vacuous smile to stare up at him. “Hi!” it squeaked, and Varda was all too happy to follow Yantilee to the bridge.

 

“ _All crew, all crew, your attention please,”_ Kezz's voice boomed through the shipwide PA system, and every screen came alight with his image. _“Plosser is no longer Captain of the_ Osric's Quandary, _and the new Captain wishes to speak. Hearken unto the words of our new Pirate Queen... uh, it is queen right now, right? Oh. King then? Um. Really? Fine. Leader. Definitely our Pirate Leader Yantilee, so listen up, people.”_

He stepped aside and allowed the Elikonian to take the stage. _“Greetings. I will keep this short. I will tell you now that I did not want to have to do this, but the actions of the previous captain have left me no choice. I have no desire to see this fine ship taken and everyone aboard, including myself, executed or imprisoned. We will be visiting Imbralth's Moon for an upgrade and refit, and any who do not wish to stay will be allowed to go without penalty. Since Imbralth's Moon is a considerable distance away on our rusty old engines, certain things will take place before then. First of all, Varda is now First Mate. You will follow her orders without question. She is smart enough to follow mine, and smart enough not to give out stupid commands... ah. And her first command is that Imlosh, Zardruss, Lantich, and Donok'Vah are to accompany her down to the docking bay to unchain her Lion. I find that to be entirely reasonable, so get down there, boys._

“ _Secondly, this ship is a mess and wants cleaning, and it will stay clean or I shall know why. All hands aboard will help with that, including myself. Thirdly, this ship will no longer prey upon unarmed traders or other craft that are unable to defend themselves adequately. We are already being hunted by Imperial authorities, so we will hunt them in turn; the Galra always have the best loot in any case. Varda will make sure that we get our share of that. That is all for now.”_

“Short and sweet, Yantilee, that's what they like best,” Haswick said with great satisfaction. “Do we have enough cash for a proper refit, do you think?”

“It's been a long time between ports,” Yantilee replied, scratching absently at his belly. “Morleth hasn't had a chance to drain the ship's purse like he usually does, and we've some good loot to trade. Varda, what does the ship have to say?”

Varda hummed thoughtfully. “Osric, list the ship's accounts on the tertiary screen, please, and the accounts of all of the demoted command staff. That includes the hidden accounts.”

The tertiary screen came alight immediately with a long list of data, some of it highlighted in red. Varda hadn't yet learned the written language commonly used onboard, but Kezz was fluent, and vented an outraged swearword.

“ _Tushwa!_ Will you look at what those... those... Ye gods, Yantilee, they'd been sucking the ship's fund dry, and for years. Morleth's little casino trips were only the start of it!”

“That stops.” Yantilee scowled at the list. “If we can't find a decent purser at Imbralth's Moon, I'll keep Morleth on with a warning that he'll respect. Just have Osric transfer all that into the ship's fund, Varda, and then go turn your Lion loose. After five months, I expect that the poor beast will want to fly again.”

In the back of Varda's mind, Shechethra was in full agreement, so she gave Osric the necessary instructions and then ran for the docking bay, where she met with four of the largest and strongest of the crew besides Yantilee. They were a stolid bunch, thankfully, and hadn't liked it that the Lion had been chained down like this. “My people have legends of Lions like this one,” Zardruss rumbled as he unlocked the clamps that secured the Lion's right front paw. “Great metal Lions that protected our ancestors from evil. It don't do to mistreat your defenders.”

“That's so,” Donok'Vah agreed, maneuvering the docking drone that would wind the chains and cables up before taking them back to the storage rooms. “M'creche-mother used to tell me and my sibs about five Lions that came from the sky in the old days, and toppled an evil wizard-king. Was our favorite bedtime story, that.”

“Yuh,” grunted Imlosh, pulling a chain away from the Lion's muzzle with a powerful heave. “Not all stories was good, though. Great-uncle Shlonn, he once said that my own folk caught these cats in the teeth once, 'cause the High Umbrik of Oprinar's Closh'd told their boss 'no'. Half a planet was scorched bare and seven fleets smashed to scrap 'cause some inbred, scroll-kissin' fanatic told some jumped-up _dorpas_ of an alien to shog off. Millions died 'cause of that.”

Lantich vented a  _snerk_ and pulled the pins out of three shacklebolts at once. “Only millions?  _Kaah._ My people have worshiped the Lions for the past ten thousand years, with holy wars, mass sacrifices, purges, and all that fun stuff.”

“Huh,” Imlosh said thoughtfully. “How come you're not worshiping this thing, then?”

“I'm an atheist,” Lantich said with an embarrassed smile. “Stayin' home woulda got me killed, so I left home hoping never to see the Gods again.” He patted the Lion on the flank with one broad hand. “Universe plays dumb jokes on a guy sometimes, don't it?”

Varda stood off to one side, knowing full well that she just didn't have the mass to help them with this job, and listening to their conversation. She'd been aware for some time now that Shechethra was the focus of quite a lot of strange old legends, and several of the crewmen had shared some of them with her. Shechethra never denied anything that was truth, and she didn't deny what Varda was hearing now.  _They are tools,_ a forgotten voice told her, and that was correct as well; a tool was only as virtuous as the hand that wielded it. Varda accepted that even as her Lion did, and sprang without hesitation into the cockpit when the last of the chains came off. Shechethra surged to her feet, waiting only long enough for the four dockjocks to get out of the way, and then galloped for the open bay doors as fast as she could go. Varda whooped with pure joy as the Lion hurled them out into space, and that joy burned like the stars themselves in the heart of the Lion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make us happy. Comments send us into transports of ecstasy. Both are what give us the energy to keep writing. If you like this fic or just have something fun to say about this chapter, drop us a line. Nothing makes us happier, and that means faster release of chapters. ^_^


	8. Hunts and Histories

 

Chapter 8: Hunts and Histories

 

_Where are you?_

Haggar shifted her field of focus another few degrees in a direction that didn't exist on the physical plane. It was an interesting trick that she'd learned ages ago from a gifted astronomer; the shift on her end might have been minuscule, but it revealed a progressively more vast area of the universe the further out she looked. The one problem with that was that she was still only one awareness in an extraordinarily vast realm, and there was only so much that she could perceive at any given time. Theoretically, the hexes she'd set into the Paladin should have made the creature show up on the astral plane like a beacon, but something had gone wrong. Her carefully-crafted hexes had been lessened somehow; they were still intact, she could feel that much, but their hold over their host was tenuous and their signature on the astral plane was occluded and weak. She had, in fact, come very close to tracking the Paladin down on more than one occasion, only to fail at the last moment due to circumstances that she could not foresee or avoid. Despite devoting several hours every day for nearly half a year now, she had come no closer than that. A lesser sorceress would be screaming in frustrated rage by now, but Haggar knew well the value of patience and perseverance. Paladins were difficult creatures, she knew that very well, and curse Voltron's programmers for hardwiring the thing to prefer heroism in its pilots! Heroes were so damned difficult to control, with their regrettable tendency to follow the spirit of the law rather than the letter of it, and to let arbitrary things like “right” and “wrong” dictate their actions. She'd done her best with Zarkon and had gotten an Empire out of it, but he'd allowed his obsessions to get the better of him in the end. Still and all, the Empire he'd built needed him. There was too much at stake to entrust to that impulsive boy of his.

She was just about to call it a day when something behind her flared a blinding green, taking her quite by surprise. She only managed a second or two of that before she was hit by the aetheric equivalent of a fully-loaded semi, and only eons of practice kept her from being hurled out of the Mindscape altogether. Stunned by the impact, Hagar could only stare at the joyous verdant blare of hot emotion and excitement that swooped daringly on at least two planes at once; the green Lion was on the loose, its Paladin in the cockpit, and both of them were having more fun than was wise. Even with their wild acrobatics, she could see the purple sparks of her own work embedded in the coruscating mind of the pilot, but she did not quite dare to activate them now. The pair of them were too hot, too bright, and would surely use that connection to immolate Haggar if she attacked now. A wise hunter waited until the prey was vulnerable, and so she contented herself with getting a good fix on their signature, breathing deep of that scent. She would find them later, and draw them to her. Assuming, of course, that Lotor didn't find them first. Haggar now perceived close by the shape and feel of a large ship that was not of Altean make; the Lion was still with those pirates. Pirates must raid, after all, and raiding attracted attention. Lotor's fleet still had her protections against the little witch's technomancy on it, and it would be interesting to see who could claim the prize first.

Haggar laughed quietly to herself and watched the Lion until it returned to the ship before returning to her own duties.

 

“Anything yet, Coran?” Allura asked, and took a long sip from her beverage packet; Tilla had cleared her for short jumps on the teludav a few days ago, and while she'd been careful, they still tired her more than she cared to admit.

“Not as such,” Coran replied, sifting, as always, through the local news channels. “Plenty of local items of interest, though. Halidex is having a bit of an upheaval, for example—their King and his family were abducted by pirates a few weeks ago, and his ambitious younger brother and a bunch of sinister cousins tried to steal the throne rather than rescue 'em. Not too different from what happened to one of your ancestors, only this time it didn't work. They got rescued anyway, and are holding off the Galra Governor with one hand and trying to catch the usurpers with the other. Doing a pretty good job of it, too.”

“Hmm,” Allura mused, and nibbled a cookie from a bowl that Hunk had left nearby. “Will we have to worry about that Governor, I wonder?”

Coran fiddled with his mustache and considered the stars. “Probably not, if we're careful. The Empire's taking a real interest in pirate activity out here, but it's a big sector of space and pirates are a wily bunch. Apparently, one of 'em's taken to hunting them right back. Guess which one?”

Allura smiled hopefully at his grin. “The  _Osric's Quandary?”_

“Spot-on as always, Princess!” he replied cheerfully. “That old tub has become something of a specialist of late, preferring Galra warships, which for some reason haven't been able to fight them off. The pirates disable their engines, strip the ship of anything valuable, rescue any prisoners, vandalize the hull a little, and then leave. Terribly embarrassing for the captains.”

“I expect so,” Allura said. “Vandalism?”

“Graffiti. The _Quandary's_ got an Unilu aboard, I think, and he's got some firmly-held opinions about Galra in general and Zarkon in particular.” Coran blushed slightly. “The last cruiser that came limping into a friendly port had a large number of very descriptive suggestions of what he might get up to on his nights off, burned right into the hull with a plasma arc. It'll take more than a bit of buffing to polish _that_ out.”

Allura giggled. “Did they get an image?”

“Several, and quite good ones. Want to have a look?”

They were laughing over one of the more lurid inscriptions on the underside of the cruiser when Hunk and Lance walked in, looking as though they'd just gotten up from a nap. This didn't surprise Allura at all; Kolanth had given them a hard run through the south wing that morning. They looked refreshed, she noticed, rather than weary. It was heartening to see that they were so close to a full recovery.

“Hi,” Lance said, peering at the image on the screen curiously. “What's been going on while we were out?”

“Find any sign of Pidge yet?” Hunk asked.

Coran leaned back against the console and indicated the besmirched cruiser. “No recorded Lion sightings yet, but some of the local pirates are getting rather bold. This cruiser here was the victim of the  _Quandary,_ and as you can see, something had to have been holding it still for long enough to put all that prose on it.”

Lance studied the image with an appreciative smile. “Alien graffiti, right?”

“Quite lurid graffiti, yes,” Allura smiled. “Do save those images, Coran, I'll want to look at them some more later. Where is Keith?”

“We were gonna ask you that,” Hunk said. “He's gone off somewhere along with Modhri and Lizenne, and Zaianne, Kolanth, and the dragons have vanished, too.”

“Huh,” Coran said, turning back to the controls. “Let's just have a look at that, shall we? Although it's good to know that Zaianne's feeling better.”

The others couldn't help but to agree. The trip out to the Moraug Sector had been fraught with danger, and Zaianne had nearly killed herself keeping the Castle clear of it. She'd lasted long enough to park them safely in orbit around one of the moons near a big gas giant before collapsing, and they'd fed her a big dinner and then tucked her into bed, where she'd stayed fast asleep for three solid days. A search of the Castle's environs turned up no sign of either Galra or dragons, and Keith was absent as well.

“Odd,” Coran said, then checked the bays. “No, his Lion's still there. Let me just contact the _Chimera._ Modhri managed to install an undamaged version of their AI, and it's a helpful chap. Hello, _Chimera,_ Coran here. We seem to be missing a few people. Seen them lately?”

“ _Greetings, Coran,”_ the slightly tinny voice of the _Chimera_ responded, _“I am indeed in possession of several persons: four Galra, two dragons, and a Paladin. They are currently in my envirodeck. You and your companions are cleared to visit, if you wish to.”_

“Thanks,” Hunk said, “what are they doing in there?”

“ _They are engaging in vigorous physical exertions with a large herbivore,”_ the AI responded in a faintly dubious tone. _“This is the activity called 'hunting'.”_

The group gave each other puzzled looks. “This, I have got to see,” Lance muttered. “Okay,  _Chimera,_ we're coming over to visit.”

“ _Acknowledged. Welcome aboard.”_

None of them wanted to be left out of this errand; despite the close friendship that they'd developed with Lizenne and Modhri, they'd never actually set foot on the _Chimera's_ decks before, and they all were mightily curious. They'd seen a little of it through the video feed during the pair's shopping trip, but that was all. The first thing that they noticed when they passed through the ship's hatch was the dim lighting; Galra eyes were more sensitive to bright light than Altean or Earthly eyes were, although none of them had ever complained about the brighter environment on the Castle. The walls had been painted a reflective pale blue to enhance what light there was, although there wasn't all that much to see. The _Chimera's_ AI wasn't much interested in giving them the grand tour, and directed them to a nearby lift that took them down a long way.

The _Chimera Rising_ was a large ship, not quite as big as the Castle, but not all that much smaller, and when the lift doors opened, they saw why. Quite aside from the spacious living quarters and science deck, the ship contained a huge interior space that had been turned into a very nice replica of the Zampedran prairie. Some clever things had been done with gravitic generators and holographic projectors to pave not just the floor of the envirodeck but the walls and ceiling with yellow grasslands, with the “sun” and the “sky” hovering in the center of the open space. A person could easily travel a thousand miles or more in a straight line in a space roughly twice the size of a football stadium. It was warm in here, and the brisk breeze smelled of tall grass and unknown foliage, and bird- and insect-equivalents made music upon the air. Rock outcroppings thrust up here and there among the grasses, and a slim little river wiggled its sparkling way over the ceiling above, pupping off the occasional pond along its length. There were even a few copses of the tall, fernlike blue trees, and Allura could swear that she saw a small herd of animals grazing on the far wall.

“Wow,” Hunk breathed, “just... wow. Look at all of this! Is it real?”

Allura reached out and ran a few stalks of prairie grass through her fingers, rubbing the bristly seed-heads with a scratchy sound. “It seems to be. Let's go climb up on those rocks over there, and see if we can spot our friends from there. Perhaps they can tell us more.”

The nearby rocks were a pile of huge boulders that had been carefully set into the turf so as to provide an easily-scaled and comfortable place to observe the surrounding prairie from, and before long they were able to see signs of activity. Something very large was charging through the grasses, followed by several much smaller creatures.

“Holy crow, what is that?” Lance said, staring at the monster that came crashing through the grass almost directly toward them.

It was _big,_ and looked as though someone had crossed a rhinoceros with an Irish Elk, and then had bred the result of that with an ankylosaur. The end result was a huge, powerfully-built beast that was striped in black and pale yellow, covered with thick bone plates, studded with spikes, crowned with ferocious branching antlers and horns, and possessed a great thick maul of a tail with a spiky bone ball at the tip, and it ran on massive legs that ended in cloven hooves that were more like claws. It roared like a bulldozer, its six mad orange eyes trying to focus on all of its attackers at once while still watching where it was going, and not quite being able to achieve that.

The observers knew well that a pack of well-organized individuals could take down prey many times their size, but this was pushing it. Something purple flashed among the grasses, and light caught the edge of a blade; the beast shrieked in fury, swerving away and hitting a boulder half-hidden in the grass. The beast stumbled, its momentum lost; it groaned and pushed itself away, but one foreleg nearly buckled beneath it, and they saw the cracks in its armor. So did the hunters.

“There,” Coran whispered, pointing out a shadow in the grasses.

That shadow was Lizenne, surprisingly hard to see among the yellow stalks, and she darted forward in a sudden rush to stab at the beast's wounded leg with her bone spear. The beast screamed and slashed at her with its antlers, but she had already leaped away, and Zaianne and Kolanth appeared at the creature's rear, slicing at the huge muscles that swung the lethal tail with their swords. The beast howled and lashed its tail angrily at them, although with much-reduced force, and Modhri and Keith appeared out of the grasses to slice at the beast's legs again. They harried the animal away from the rocks and forced it into a lurching, three-legged gallop toward a tall stand of grasses. The hunting party stopped short of that, and just as well, for Soluk and Tilla suddenly erupted from their hiding spot within it, sinking their finger-long fangs into the weakened animal's shoulders and dragging it out of sight. The beast let out one last screech of shock and there was some violent thrashing amidst the stand, and then nothing. One of the hunters let out a breathless whoop of triumph, but that was all. Hunk stood up carefully on his rock and yelled, “Hey, guys, having fun?”

Yellow eyes glinted up at them in surprise, and then five trails were visible in the grass as the hunting party approached the rocks. Allura, Coran, and Lance shifted nervously, feeling a little like castaways on a desert island, _and here came the sharks..._

Well, no. These were what hunted the sharks. Four Galra and one Human stepped out of the grasses, dressed in tight-fitting, supple leather breeks and lace-up vests, weapons sheathed and attitudes alert, but not aggressive. Keith was still breathing hard from the chase and his hair was damp with sweat, and there was a fierce look in his eyes that the others had never seen before. They looked pleased with themselves, relaxed and satisfied; Zaianne in particular seemed entirely contented, walking beside her son with a congratulatory arm draped over his shoulders and a proud look upon her face.

Lizenne was at the head of the group, and she paused at the foot of the stones, glancing up in amusement at the nervous visitors. “You might as well come down,” she said, “the hunt is over and it's safe enough. Yes, even from us. Food that talks isn't food, you know, we're not so wild yet as to have forgotten that.”

“Really,” Lance said cautiously, “what do you mean by 'yet'?”

There was a chuckle or two from the Galra. “Some of us have had a few close calls in that direction. We're nothing like as distant from our evolutionary ancestors as some would like to think,” Kolanth grinned fiercely at them. “Predators, right? Now get down here and congratulate Khaeth, whose first hunt as part of a pack has been very successful.”

Hunk clambered down carefully from his perch, trying to keep an eye on all of them at once. “No kidding? Looks like the dragons stole your thunder to me.”

Lizenne shook her head, tapping the ground with the butt of her spear. “Nothing of the sort. The best way to deal with a prey animal that big is for the smaller, younger packmembers to tire it out and weaken it, and then drive it toward the biggest and strongest members for the kill. Elders and any cubs there might be eat first, anyway, and their favorite parts of that ornipal are the parts that we can't digest. We'll have our turn at the carcass in a little while. Shall I invite you to dinner? Roasted ornipal is not to be missed, especially when fresh. We shall have a feast, I think, in honor of my fine nephew, who did yeoman service in this day's hunt and never once flagged or wavered.”

Lance was giving Keith a narrow, rather envious look. Keith merely gazed back, looking infuriatingly calm and comfortable, as though he were completely within his element. “This is a Galra thing, right? There isn't going to be dancing naked around a bonfire, or bathing in blood, or eating raw meat or anything weird like that, is there?”

“Don't be insulting,” Modhri chided gently. “Bonfires are too dangerous in this season, bathing in blood is unhygienic, and ornipal meat is toxic to us when raw. We'll eat in the dining room as is proper, with cutlery and everything.”

“And the naked dancing?” Coran asked, sounding just slightly disappointed.

Zaianne snorted. “That's up to you, depending on how much horath you've drunk. Or numvill, in your case. I warn you, sir, if you do strip down and start capering about, I will take vids to horrify my grandchildren with.”

“ _Madame!”_

Allura laughed at his outraged tone. “I'm sure that we'd be delighted, although we might pass on the dancing. Will you need help with the cooking?”

“No, but we would appreciate some help with the carcass,” Lizenne said thoughtfully. “It was a well-grown bull. All you'll have to do is help us package and store the bulk of it for later—hardly any blood and guts involved, I promise. Even with the dragons helping, this kill will last us for weeks. Just duck back into the lift and ask the _Chimera_ for packing film and coolers, please, and we'll handle the yucky bits.”

The simulated sun was setting by the time that the group got the last of their kill sectioned up and several large hovercrates stowed in the deep-freeze locker, minus one chunk of haunch meat that was to be the centerpiece of that night's meal. Before any cooking happened, however, they all had to clean up in the ship's decontam facilities. Tilla and Soluk, on the other hand, had evolved to be able to eat just about anything that their homeworld could throw at them, and after a good roll in the grasses to clean the gore off, had drifted off to sleep with bulging bellies and happy smiles.

The feast that night was held in the _Chimera's_ stateroom, and was, as promised, delicious. Everyone was being very civilized, which struck Allura as a little odd, considering the manner by which the roast had been obtained; the strange dichotomy of fierce hunting pack and cultured conversation at the meal was giving her some trouble. Zaianne noticed her confusion and gave her a wry smile. Cultural hangups again, girl?”

“Possibly. My people aren't predators.” Allura took a sip of juice from her glass before continuing; it had been squeezed only a half-hour earlier from a Zampedran fruit from the envirodeck, and she had found it to be very pleasant. “Is it normal these days to take adolescents out on hunts like that?”

Zaianne rattled her claws on the table and looked a little sad. “Not really. Back in the pre-Empire days, youngsters weren't considered to be proper adults until they'd been part of a group hunt. These days, it's a privilege usually reserved for the Noble Lineages, and common folk must make do with other tests and ceremonies. Or join the military, where they are taught that aliens are their prey. Khaeth is very lucky in his acquired relatives.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said, wiping his face with a napkin. “I've gotta ask, Lizenne—where'd you get all that? I mean, the whole envirodeck, the animals, everything.”

“Truth be told, I grew them.” Lizenne smiled at her guests' surprised exclamations. “The first thing we did after obtaining this ship was to return to Zampedri, where I took gene-samples from our favorite part of the dragons' range. The _Chimera,_ and bless the Hanifors for their thoroughness, is a high-end, long-mission science vessel, and the whole purpose of that envirodeck is to create a reasonably genuine habitat for interesting specimens. The gene-lab came in very handy there, since the Elder Dragons forbade me from taking big chunks out of their turf. I was allowed to gather seeds, spores, roots, and tubers here and there, but I had to sample and clone the rest. Tilla and Soluk need that slice of home, and so do Modhri and I.”

Lance nodded. “They sure looked happy, I know that. You can't take the lion out of the savannah without messing him up, right?”

“Very true,” Lizenne replied. “They are predators, and they must hunt live meat every so often or they'll lose condition, and their health—mental and physical—will suffer. There is also the fact that the nutrition synthesizers on the Castle simply can't replicate some of the more exotic nutrients that the dragons must have. We Galra must hunt occasionally as well, although that is a need that often goes unaddressed in modern society. The envirodeck is kept well-stocked with small prey at all times to ease both their needs and ours.”

Coran indicated the remains of the roast with his fork. “That beast wasn't exactly small.”

Modhri nodded. “She'll occasionally clone up something larger when the dragons feel the need of it. They've been as worried and frustrated as we've been of late, and she's had that ornipal fattening up down there for some weeks now. A rare treat, that; ornipals are dangerous and have enormous appetites. We can't have more than one in the deck at a time, or they'll disrupt the whole ecosystem. Tilla and Soluk will be far more cheerful now... after they wake up, at least.”

“That's cool,” Lance said thoughtfully, “what else can you guys clone up?”

“Just about anything,” Lizenne said, refilling Keith's glass from a nearby pitcher. “So long as I have a good gene-sample to start with, I can replicate the whole creature or parts thereof. Hanifor science tech is very good, too; far faster and better than what was on my previous ship. Theoretically, I could make fifty copies of you, Lance.”

Keith made a faint sound of distaste. “I don't think that the universe could bear that many Lances.”

Lance glared at him. “Hey, pal, just because you have trouble handling the presence of a paragon of perfection— _hey!”_

Lance was sitting next to Zaianne, and she had just tweaked his ear. “Down, boy. You'll have your turn at a hunt soon enough. You won't be able to outnumber anyone like that, anyway.”

“Huh?” Lance said, rubbing at his ear.

Lizenne leaned forward, resting her chin on one fist, her golden eyes very serious. “While I could clone you, Lance, I cannot reproduce you in your entirety. While those clones would be genetically identical to the original sample, they would not be _you._ They would be empty husks unless I initiated nascent brain function, and even then they would be infants in adolescent bodies at best. They would have to be cared for and raised to adulthood the usual way... _and they would all be different people._ Your memories, your thoughts, your feelings, your very soul, boy; I can't copy those out to other bodies. Not even Haggar can do that. I could transplant your brain into a fresh body if your old one becomes too damaged to rebuild, but I won't clone a whole corpus unless it becomes absolutely necessary. It's horribly unethical to do anything more than to grow spare limbs and organs for medical purposes, especially without the permission of the donor. The Elder Dragons have warned me that if I get silly ideas in that direction, they will take steps to curb my actions. I do not argue with them.”

Hunk humphed. “So, that's why you rebuilt Modhri instead of just cloning up a fresh body. That makes sense.”

“More than you might think,” Modhri said, running a thumb over a scar on the other arm. “There is... trauma, I suppose you could call it, when a new body part is grafted on. The original parts are familiar and personal, but the new ones, while they are definitely of the same flesh, they are still strangers to the soul. It takes some time to get used to them. I needed much care to recover from my own reconstruction, and I can only imagine, although not willingly, what it would take to have to get used to a whole new body.”

“To say nothing of having to strengthen and train it afterward,” Kolanth said grimly, rubbing at the arm that he'd come so close to losing. “I will thank you again, Princess, for the loan of that healpod. Kolivan is already a little annoyed at me for lingering here; he would not have been at all pleased to have me completely out of action for the best part of a year. Possibly more than that.”

“Which is why mechanical prosthetics are far more common,” Zaianne added. “Those are far faster to make and easier to assimilate, although the trauma occurs regardless.”

“Shiro had a lot of trouble with that,” Keith said glumly, and looked up at Lizenne with pleading eyes. “Do you think we'll ever see him again?”

She shrugged. “I can't say. Time does not run the same way between this plane and the others. We can hope, but that's all we can do right now.”

 

Varda was grinning like a demon as she tested her skills as a pilot, Shechethra's voice a constant chant in the back of her mind as she put the Lion through its paces. The office of First Mate aboard the _Osric's Quandary_ was by no means a sinecure, but she always sectioned out a few hours of the day for a little flying practice. Yantilee didn't mind and her fellow officers knew better than to protest; an extra fighter pilot, even so unusual a one, was never a bad thing to have. The only restriction that Yantilee did put on her was that she wasn't allowed to fly in combat yet, and Varda could, reluctantly, agree with her reasoning. As the _Quandary's_ secret weapon, she could not be risked, and it was a good idea to keep the enemy from seeing the Lion. “The Galra get crazy about the Lions, remember,” Yantilee had had to remind her more than once. “There are only five, and they've got abilities that the Emperor wants. If the Empire starts sending whole fleets after us—the big ones, not just the little pirate-hunter teams we've dealt with so far, we'll lose both your cat and the _Quandary_ as well. Remember that Lotor and his lot have been jumping around after us. I've heard bad things about that one.”

So had Varda. Lotor was said to be ruthless, cruel, and relentless in pursuit of a goal, and took an active enjoyment in destroying anyone who got in his way. There were other rumors as well, rumors to the effect of him having unsavory habits where it came to pretty, upright-bipedal females. Varda didn't think that she was in much danger there—an image of a tall, brown-skinned and white-haired girl had crossed her mind before vanishing—but as Haswick often said, it didn't do to tempt fate. They were tempting it quite enough in their choice of prey, anyway; the Empire didn't like it when their proud warships got jumped and stripped, although Yantilee had acquiesced to Varda's request that they no longer took or sold prisoners. Slavery upset her on a deep level, and when Kezz had jokingly suggested that they keep one or two Galra ship captains on as kitchen help for Ronok, she'd slapped him so hard that his ears had flown right across the room. Ronok had averred that he had plenty of help now, and he was quite right; the Empire ships almost always carried prisoners onboard, and Varda made a point of rescuing every single one. These captives were all too willing to do odd jobs around the ship in return for rescue and a safe trip home, where possible. No few of them had decided to stay onboard and turn pirate, and since they often had valuable skills, no such volunteer was ever turned down.

As a result of this, the _Quandary_ was starting to have a hard time finding lone patrol ships now, and Yantilee didn't like pushing Varda's unique talents too far, which was something that Varda appreciated very much after the abuse she'd seen under Plosser's thumb. Still, they would need a new advantage soon, especially if they came under Lotor's eye. The _Quandary_ had benefited mightily from the refit that it had been given at Imbralth's Moon, but it was still only one ship. A much faster, stronger, and better-armed ship now, Varda reflected, for all that she hadn't been allowed to help with the refit. Imbralth's Moon made its money by serving _everyone,_ regardless of political affiliation, and its sideline as an information market came close to eclipsing its ship refurbishing business at times. The _Quandary's_ captain and crew knew full well that if a Lion and its Paladin were to be spotted among their number, the news would be in Imperial hands almost immediately. As a result, Kezz had taken her and Shechethra on a little vacation to a nearby planet that was mostly mountains, and they had spent a local week or so camping in a rather pleasant valley where they spent their time looking for fossils and rough gems in the mountain streams. It had been fun, but she had been glad to come back when Haswick had called and given them the all-clear, and she had insisted upon inspecting every single upgrade and enhancement. She had been very impressed, and had been just as impressed to see that one of the big staterooms had been converted into a captive jungle. A full Hydroponics kit had been installed and planted while she and Kezz had been pulling sparkling agates out of streambeds, and a whole crowd of Nantileeri had come along with the package to look after the dozens of varieties of symbiotic insects that were vital to the health of those plantings. Ronok had welcomed her back with a pie made from fresh-picked berries that had brought tears to her eyes, it was so good, and she had taken care to become good friends with the new crewmen. It was all a massive improvement, for all that the ship's fund was a wee bit thin right now, but there was not a single crewman aboard who would complain about it. Even as mighty as the Captain had made it, the _Quandary_ would not be able to face down the Prince's private fleet alone; Yantilee was thinking about that, Varda knew, and wondered how long it would be before trouble caught up with them. They would need an advantage beyond better guns, and soon.

Shechethra was aware of her thoughts and murmured a cool green word in the back of her mind, a word that sounded like a laugh. Varda's eyes were drawn, almost without her conscious direction, to a button on the control board that looked newer than the rest. Without thinking, she pressed it, and was rewarded with a startled yelp from the communicator. _“Miss Varda, where'd you go?”_ Luddi's voice fluted through her comm. He was new, one of those hired-on rescuees, in fact, and a high-strung but very able navigator. _“Miss Varda?”_

“I'm fine,” Varda replied soothingly, “you really can't see me?”

“ _No! You were right there on the screens, and then suddenly—_ voip!— _you're gone. You don't show up on any of the sensors, and I can't see you out of the port, either. What did you do?”_

“So that's what that button does,” she muttered to herself. “My Lion's got a cloaking device. It doesn't last long, but I'm invisible during that time. I think... I think that I'm the one that wired it in.”

“ _You came up with that by yourse—whoops! There you are again.”_ Luddi vented a long, admiring whistle, and Varda could imagine the birdlike alien's red and white feathers all fluffed up. Varda recalled that she'd been happy when Luddi had signed up, because every pirate ship should have at least one parrot. _“That's amazing! A lot of peoples have tried to come up with systems that will hide their ships from their enemies, but this is the best I've ever seen.”_

“ _And it lasts about fifteen_ kepra, _in which time a lot can happen,”_ Yantilee said thoughtfully. _“Do you think that you could give the_ Quandary _that ability?”_

“Maybe,” Varda reached out with her mind and touched Osric, who was perfectly willing to try and offered up his specs without being asked. “I think so. I'd have to have access to every part of the ship--”

“ _You've got that already,”_ Kezz pointed out, sounding amused.

“Yeah, and a lot of the right parts, and time.” Varda finished.

“ _We can give you time, and whatever help you might want,”_ Yantilee replied easily, and this was so—among the new crewmembers were a whole family of Nantileeri, who could get absolutely anywhere on the ship, inside or outside the hull. _“What sort of parts will you need?”_

Varda sat back in her seat, her mind spinning in that busy way it had when she was planning to build something really neat. She had her own research lab just down the hall from Doc's office now, which was another daily indulgence that she insisted on. “I'll need a power source,” she began slowly, “a big one. The cloaking system takes a lot of power, and I don't want it draining Osric's core.”

“ _Not a problem. One of the big freight shuttles wrecked not long before you joined us, and we've still got the salvageable bits—including the power core,”_ Kezz told her, _“what with one thing and another, we never got around to fixing it. Go ahead and take it down for parts. What else will you need?”_

Varda rattled off a long list of bits and pieces, a little surprised at how easily she could remember them. It didn't seem to worry the bridge crew, at least. _“Check the junkrooms,”_ Kezz replied after a moment's thought. _“We've got tons and tons of stuff that we've been collecting and stashing for years, and the Quartermaster's eager to shift some of the older materials to make room for the more recent goodies. Ask Lon's new girlfriend for help with that—she and her sister's brood of youngsters have been working in the hydroponics section for long enough now to be bored. Hunting for treasure is always a good way to spend an afternoon.”_

Varda was in full agreement with that, and despite Shechethra's protests at her cutting their flight time short, she took them back into the docking bay. Not long afterward, she and Quartermaster Maozuh were going through the inventory lists of the _Quandary's_ largest junkroom, and Varda was in tech heaven. If anything, Kezz had understated just how much electronic treasure they'd accumulated, and all of it was still pristine. Maozuh was quite proud of that, having been thrown out of her own people's military for refusing to play what she had rather contemptuously called “The Game”.

“Space navy was all government-owned,” the elderly, white-dappled Goprushkin sneered, levering open a crate of transmitter parts for Varda's inspection. “Government was corrupt as corrupt could be, and was mighty tight with the money where it came to those as did their dirty work. Didn't pay the crews hardly nothing, didn't pay the command staff hardly nothing. Ship's ordinance was worth more'n the men who loaded it. We was expected to make payroll out of our own wits, so we was, and that meant black-market. Lots and lots of cheap factory seconds and thirds labeled as premium product, lots and lots of stuff recycled and stolen from other ships labeled as new, half- to two-thirds of the stuff didn't work, and I'll not tell you what went into the stews at dinner-time. Galra or no, it's a glad person I am that Ronok minds the stocking of the pantries.”

“Ronok's a good man,” Varda said, digging greedy hands into the neatly-packaged parts.

Maozuh gestured an affirmative. “Better'n many in my old service, and that irony's not lost on me. I saw what such poor supply was doing to the space navy, and I would not play The Game. No bad parts in my storage, no bad ordinance in my magazines, no bad guns or armor protecting my crew, no bad chow in my kitchens. None. Captain hated me, ship's treasurer hated me, but the _Burak Noza_ survived where other ships didn't. Got rid of me all the same when I wouldn't enter into a kickback scheme with a gang of dockjocks on Lunzho Station, and not six _pahsi_ later, the Imperials had wiped the whole badly-run, badly-paid, and badly-supplied navy out of orbit. I signed on with the _Quandary_ a little later when it dropped by to scavenge off of the wreckage. If I was going to work for criminals, then they should at least be honest ones.”

“Were they?” Varda asked.

Maozuh blinked her four large dark eyes and moved her shoulders in her people's equivalent of a shrug. “Captain Manitza was, then Plosser, who was greedy but not stupid. Then Canuptul, who caught Plosser unawares once, and was stupid but not greedy. Plosser again, about a _piniri_ later when his head grew back, and then Hebaric, who wasn't honest about anything but being a fighter pilot. Lost him to a lucky shot from a pirate-hunter. Plosser again, until Jorona took his head off. Very daring fellow, very formal, very honorable. A pity, almost, that no one else out here is, and he paid for his ideals. Plosser took advantage of his pretty manners by wheedling a fresh-caught ship from him, the _Palaburn's Bane_. Good ship, good guns, good engines, too good by half for the old Juskoran, but Jorona gave it to him anyway, just to see the back of him. Didn't last. He'd had the _Bane_ for only eleven _quira_ before someone near-gutted him, and his crew decided to mutiny not long after he was out of the healpod. Came back to the _Quandary,_ so he did, on the sly, and helped a dim but ambitious crewman oust old Jorona. Zok was Captain for a while before handing it off to Plosser again, and was the first to become that Gantar's lunch when Plosser bought it at Pumnuckle Port's market. Now we've got Yantilee, who's honest and smart.”

Varda frowned. “Plosser's been on the _Quandary_ for a long time. How come nobody's gotten rid of him?”

Maozuh smiled wryly and patted a nearby wall with a wrinkled, three-fingered hand. “He's good at his job, up to a point. Osric keeps him around as a sort of fallback, see? On a fresh head, he usually lasts about... hmm... oh, seven or eight _quira_ before he starts getting stupid enough to annoy the crew into mutiny. Lasted only four _quira_ this time, but you're an odd one. Didn't quite know how to handle you right, and it cost him.”

Varda growled and pulled out a fistful of useful devices. “Damn right it did. His next head's coming off as soon as it grows back. I'm not going to let him kill Yantilee!”

Maozuh gave her a salute. “Nor will anyone else. We're keeping that one. Elikonians is rare these days, and grand to have about.”

Varda opened her mouth to agree, but the PA system drowned out anything she would have said. _“Varda, report to the sick bay for your checkup, please,”_ Doc's voice echoed off of the walls. _“Put down your toys, girl, this is important. You owe it to us and to your Lion to stay healthy.”_

Maozuh chuckled. “Doc plays dirty.”

“Doc's a bully,” Varda groaned and handed her the list of parts. “Here. If you'll just find the rest of this for me, I'll come back when he's done.”

Maozuh squinted at the list. Varda had become more or less accustomed to the crew's common written system, but her spelling still needed work. “I think we've got all this, but we're gonna have to talk about some of it. Some bits're newer'n others, and less liable to blow. Now go, before Doc sends someone after you.”

Varda sighed regretfully and pattered down the halls to the sick bay. It was cleaner and less cluttered in there now, since Yantilee had insisted that the ship be clean and stay clean, but that just meant that Doc's empties were neatly stacked in a rather artistic pile in one corner. He was sober and wearing a fresh shirt at least, and he nodded in a friendly manner when she came in.

“Just present yourself to the omniscanner like last time,” he told her, bringing up a file of data on a nearby screen. “This shouldn't take long, since you're not being run ragged these days. There's actual meat on your bones now.”

Varda rolled her eyes and lay down on the exam table; people were always nagging her about her weight. Doc studied the readout carefully, venting the occasional _hmph_ over this thing or that. “Am I turning into a mutant yet?” She asked once the omniscanner had finished.

“No more than any of the rest of us,” Doc replied absently, “well, except maybe Jul'Opa. I'm sure that he's on another evolutionary regression cycle. Well, we'll park him in the swamp vat in Hydroponics if he turns into an amphibian again, although Dwesk gets peevish about having to share her reed borers. You, on the other hand, are as healthy as you can be. Nice strong bones, no signs of injury or illness, and Nasty's been keeping you fit. Oh, and here are the suppressants for next month, by the way. Your reproductive cycle is weird.”

She glowered at him, but tucked the packet of pills he gave her into a pocket. Now that she was at full strength again, certain parts of her body had rather unfairly sprung an inconvenient surprise upon her a week ago, and it had taken Doc all night to figure out what had been going on in there. “At least I don't have to spawn hundreds of eggs every three weeks like some I could mention. Or switch genders every five minutes.”

Doc sighed and reached for a vial of pinkish liquid. “Yantilee's getting better, now that I've found out what was causing that. Hmm. You are getting a little low on certain vitamins, however. Time for your medicine, young lady.”

Varda stared at the vial with loathing. She'd had to take the vitamin booster every two weeks since she'd arrived, and while she was willing to admit that it worked, the flavor had not improved, nor had her willingness to put up with it. She was healthier and more fit than she had ever been in her life, and was now in a position of real authority. This, she realized, enabled her to vote with her feet. She made use of this fact by springing up from the table and sprinting out of the door at a dead run.

Doc merely smiled, swirling the vial idly. “Well, she's improved,” he murmured, and touched the PA button. “All crew, please hear this. First Mate Varda has declined to take the medicine that keeps her sharp and healthy, simply because it doesn't taste nice, and has escaped my clutches. Kindly track her down and bring her back to the sick bay; there will be a prize for the person who brings her in.”

Crouched in a shadowy side passage, Varda heard not only that message, but a group of nearby crewmen. “Woo-hoo! A prize!”

A shout went up: “Varda hunt!”

“Traitors,” Varda growled, remembering belatedly that, having joined a pirate crew, Doc no longer had to answer to an ethics committee and didn't have to coddle non-compliant patients any more.

The _Quandary_ housed over three hundred crewmen now, and it wasn't long before she was spotted. Some of the crew were faster than she was, or stronger, or better-suited to tight spaces, but she took the prize for clever and really made them work for the win. In the end, she was seized from behind by a burly, four-legged fellow that she hadn't had time to learn the name of yet and was carried at a gallop back down the hall at the head of a large and enthusiastic group. “I got 'er, Doc, I got 'er!” her captor shouted cheerfully, “What's t'prize?”

“Very good, Amrit,” Doc congratulated him. “How would you like that demon-possessed toaster oven that Ronok's been hoarding?”

Amrit's scaly brow wrinkled. “Aw, bleah, I don't want that,” he said, and put Varda down; Varda immediately took off again.

“I want it! I want it!” someone in the crowd yelled, bounding after her in huge leaps.

This was Somlesc, who looked a bit like a python crossed with a centipede, and when he wanted to move fast, he curled himself into a great coil spring and bounced along on his tail. There was an indignant squawk out in the hall, and he came bouncing back with Varda enwrapped in the middle.

“Excellent, Somlesc, hold her just like that,” Doc said, ignoring Varda's complaints and pouring the tonic down her throat with practiced ease. “Thank you, gentlebeings, that was exemplary, and I hope to engage your services next time, should my patient here decide to run for the hills rather than take her vitamins like a sensible person. Somlesc, you may now go and collect your prize.”

Somlesc dumped Varda out onto the floor and sprang away whooping with glee, the others following curiously behind. Varda gave Doc a dirty look. “He worships that thing, you know.”

“I'm aware,” Doc said calmly, placing the vial in the cleanser. “I've had it up to here with the thing scorching my flatbread, so why not hand it off to someone who will treat it as it deserves?”

“There really is a demon in it,” Varda said grumpily.

“But it only manifests in the presence of flatbread,” Doc flicked her a smile, “and you're only saying that because you can't make the thing work properly.”

“It's the _only_ thing onboard that I can't fix!” Varda flung up her arms in true technician's despair.

Doc chuckled. “There's always one. Be glad that it's only a kitchen appliance. Now go and play with your big-girl toys; you've got an hour or two to spare before dinner, and Ronok's making sanbitt tacos tonight. Mustn't miss those.”

Varda perked right up to hear that. The whole ship had rejoiced when their last raid had netted them nearly two tons of flash-frozen sanbitt fish, that being a protein that very nearly every crewmember could digest, and was delicious as well. She hopped up and trotted out in a far better humor than before. The rest of the afternoon was spent in sorting through Maozuh's crates of interesting widgets and planning how best to wire in the cloaking system, and she attacked her supper with gratifying appetite that evening.

She bedded down that night in her thelwisk-seed fort. Not that she had to; as First Mate, she had the official spacious cabin with a real bed, private sanitary facilities, and even a bathtub to splash around in if she liked. It was simply that she didn't feel right sleeping alone in that big, chilly room, and much preferred the comforting scents, sounds, and proximity to her uncle that the fort provided. As much as she liked Yantilee and the others, she was closest to Ronok for reasons that she herself couldn't explain. He was benefiting from the relationship too, she'd noticed; he didn't snap at people quite so often now, and the bitter lines in his face had eased. Someone had told her once that Galra took family very seriously, and didn't do well if they were separated from them for too long. She'd given him a big hug before going to bed, which had pleased him, and she settled down contentedly to sleep.

 

She dreamed, and knew that she dreamed, for she had been here before. Numerous times, as a matter of fact; she could recognize the constellations in the night sky above now, and the sweet moist scent of the tall grasses was as familiar to her as thelwisk. She had hunted and had been hunted through this place, seeking her pack and trying to avoid the yellow-eyed, reeking monster that sought her. She could smell it on the night wind even now, unpleasantly close and getting closer, and she hurried away as quietly as she could.

She had eluded it in the past, but not tonight. Something was wrong. Something was slowing her down, pulling her back, almost as though cords had been tied around her spine and anchored to something heavy. No matter how fast she ran or how random a path she took, she could not escape those bonds. She eventually came to a panting halt in an area she recognized, her back and head beginning to ache in earnest now. This was where the monster had revealed itself to her the first time, and its aura had left a blight upon the grasses. A cold laugh drifted through the air, sending chills down her spine.

_Did you really think that you could hide from me forever, child?_ A cruel voice gloated.  _You have not the skill for that, little fool. You could not even keep that Lion of yours from breaking cover right in front of me._

Varda spun, trying to find the source of the voice, but there was nothing to see but shadows.

_You are alone and crippled, abandoned by your friends and left in the care of criminals. It is a sad waste of talent, girl. You will do far better by coming with me._

Varda gasped as a great dark shape swept down from above, half-choking her with the stench of evil. It loomed horribly, pulling itself up into a vast, hunched shape, long silver hair blowing in the breeze and a pair of phosphorescent eyes burning in the shadows of what might have been a hood. Aside from that and the glint of grinning fangs, Varda had the horrible feeling that the robe was completely empty. No, worse than that. There had been something there once, something very great, but only oblivion filled that shape with its unconquerable appetite now.

_Come, girl,_ it murmured to her, long predator teeth glinting in the starlight, a red streak visible below one eye.  _Come. Bid your Lion to be still and take the ship it rests in. Bring them both to me. It is high time that you took up greater duties._

“No,” Varda whispered, and felt a sudden pain in her spine and in the back of her head.

_You have no choice in this matter. You will come to me now. You know where to go already._

“I can't!” Varda gasped through another spasm of pain. “I have family here. They need me!”

_They are none of yours, girl. What need do you have for family? You abandoned one and have forgotten the second. Cast aside this poor third and come to me, who will never let you go._

There was a dreadful promise in those words and Varda tried to back away, noticing for the first time that she was connected to the monster. Seven thin, dimly-glowing lines of amethyst light led from the aches in her back and head to the clawed, bony fist of the nightmare before her. She tried to pull away and failed; she might as well have been bound by steel cables.

It laughed at her, cold and vicious. _No escape. Not this time. I have set my hooks into you, and you are half my creature already. You reach uselessly for what you do not need and cannot have. You have no hope of achieving anything better than what I can offer you. You will come, and come now._

This time when the monster yanked on the cords, Varda was dragged to her knees by the pain of it. “No!” she gasped, her hands grabbing uselessly at the crumbling, blighted grassroots.

_Come, girl,_ it said, impatience beginning to seep into its voice,  _there is no point in fighting me. I could destroy you where you kneel. I have wasted too much time in hunting about for you already, and while I would like to leave you alive, it is not strictly necessary. You do not want to make me angry._

Varda sobbed in agony and fear, knowing the monster's words for truth. She was about to comply when a second voice came to her out of nowhere, distant, but strong. Out of the past, she realized. Someone had told her a great and simple truth once, someone she had trusted implicitly. Someone who had helped her, had traveled with her, had strengthened and protected her, who had shared both triumphs and failures with her and had emerged undaunted by either. Varda struggled to her feet and gave the monster a glare of defiance that made it blink in confusion.

“I am a Dragon,” Varda said, hearing the echo of that forgotten friend in her voice.

_What?_ The monster breathed incredulously.

“I am a Lion,” Varda stated, her courage returning.

The seven cords flashed golden, and the monster shrieked in surprise, dropping them and shaking its hand as though it had been burned.

“I am a Hero,” Varda shouted, her voice building into a roar of defiance that echoed around the empty grassland. _“I will fight!”_

Still roaring, Varda leaped at the confused monster with the full intent of ripping it to pieces. The monster jerked away in a cloud of foul miasmas and they tumbled awkwardly, buffeted by the echoes--

 

The dream shattered, and Varda hit the floor hard on her back. She felt her heels thump against something firm and wrapped in slick paper, and she heard yelps of surprise coming from somewhere nearby. There were hands on her then, strong, gentle hands that lifted her up from her clumsy sprawl on the decking. She felt a pair of warm arms wrap around her shoulders, and soft fur against her skin, and a familiar odor of spice and samoyed filled her nose. “Varda? What was that, girl? Were you dreaming again?”

“Ungh?” she grunted, grabbing at his apron, vastly relieved by the simple reality of the coarse fabric against her palms. “Huh? Ronok. Yeah. I was dreaming.” she swallowed hard. “Throat's sore.”

A beverage bulb was pressed into her hands. “And well it should be, if it was you making all that noise. I've heard many a roar in my time, but that _gronk_ you just let out rattled the walls.”

“I... gronked?” Varda asked after gulping down her drink. “I don't gronk.”

Ronok smiled and tapped the tip of her nose gently. “I've heard you snore before, love, and that was no snore. It was a veritable gronk.”

“I don't gronk!” Varda insisted, “That was a figment of your imagination! I yelled in my dream, but I didn't gronk.”

“My imagination doesn't work like that,” Ronok rebutted easily, “I heard no yelling, but I did hear a prizewinning gronk.”

She glared defiantly at him. “It was air in the pipes.”

“What pipes we've got are pressurized and airless. No, it wasn't.”

Varda crossed her arms grumpily. “I reject your reality and substitute my own. I do not gronk.”

Ronok snorted a laugh and lifted her to her feet. “Reality's got its own ideas about that sort of thing. In this reality, however, it's breakfast-time, and I need you out front to pass out loret cider. Get to it, girl.”

She glared at him and waggled a finger. “Is that any way to speak to the First Mate?”

“No,” he admitted, “but it's the way I speak to my niece. So long as you're in my kitchen, love, you're my niece first and foremost. Now go pass out cider while I get your breakfast ready.”

In truth, Varda was still trembling inside from the aftershocks of her dream, and this ridiculous exchange and the familiar task she'd been given were so wonderfully normal that they nearly had her in tears. If the crewmen were surprised that she, First Mate of the _Osric's Quandary,_ was still taking orders from the ship's cook, she didn't care. Not that she needed to worry about that. By and large, her shipmates were happy that her new rank hadn't gone to her head. She was halfway through filling her quota of glasses with the spicy-smelling cider when a slim, greenish hand closed over her wrist, and she looked up into Nasty's narrow, pale eyes. “You got a live dragon or something marinating back there, Varda?” he asked, flicking a finger at the kitchen doors. “There was an almighty gronk just now.”

“I don't gronk!” she yelled, nearly spilling the cider.

“Did I say you did?” Nasty asked slyly. “Nah, everybody out here heard it, loud and clear. What's eating you?”

Varda groaned. “A scary lady, or almost. I had a bad dream. She was trying to force me to leave you guys, and worse—bring the ship to her as well. That wouldn't have ended well.”

“Huh,” said the crewman sitting next to Nasty, a lanky grayish fellow with overlong limbs and ridges of bristly black fur running down his back, head, and arms. Nobody could pronounce his proper name, so he'd accepted “Stripes” as a nickname. “What kind of scary lady?”

Varda rolled her eyes and handed him a glass of cider. “The usual. Big, dark, huge flappy robes, long pale hair, glowing yellow eyes, big sharp teeth and claws, and she smelled really bad. Very evil.”

Stripes humphed and pulled a portable screen out of a belt pouch, summoning up a file of odd images. “My folk've got dream-priests who've sort of made a study of nightmare monsters. Lessee... what sorta dark? Pure black, or with some other color mixed in?”

“Purple,” Varda said, eyeing the images dubiously, “with red streaks below the eyes, pointing downward toward the mouth.”

Stripes vented a soft _hah_ under his breath. “Well, you can sure pick 'em. That one's real, and is bad news both waking and sleeping! Here, is this the critter?”

The image he held up made her go cold inside. It was a picture taken at some sort of official function, with Galra of various types standing around and looking important. Standing next to a tall, vaguely reptilian-looking male in a heavy-looking ceremonial cloak and helmet was a smaller, stooped figure in a hooded robe. That individual was staring directly at whoever had taken the image with large, wide-set, luminous yellow eyes, red streaks livid below them and framed further by two long hanks of silvery hair. The expression on that face was not friendly, but it was very familiar. Varda reacted instantly and without hesitation, drawing her bayard from her pocket and slicing the screen in half.

“That's the one, huh?” Stripes said, gazing sadly at his bisected device. “That was new, y'know.”

Varda took a deep breath, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I'll get you another one out of Stores. Who is that?”

“Haggar,” Nasty said. “The Emperor's own witch, and the scariest lady in the universe. She's worse news than a surprise visit from a team of forensic accountants. What does she want with you?”

“I don't know!” Varda said miserably. “I'm not sure that I want to know.”

Stripes extended one overlong finger at her. “The Lion,” he said grimly. “You've got the Lion. The Emperor wants the Lions, and what _he_ wants, _she_ wants. You've also got priest-talent. Folks with priest-talent tend to disappear around her. Don't you go with her if she comes calling again, Miss, not ever! Those who go, they don't come back.”

“I wasn't going to,” Varda replied, suddenly furious at those people in the ruined image. “I'd told her that I wouldn't! She can't have my Lion, and she can't have me! I won't let her have any of you, either, or Osric, or anyone else.”

Stripes smiled and swept up the bits of his ruined screen. “Good words to hear, Miss, but I'll tell you a thing that m'Dad once told me: in the end, might does make right, and the powerful will take whatever they want if you're not strong or clever enough to stop 'em. Emperor Zarkon and his witch, they've made a habit of wiping out any who was. Voltron's the only thing out there that's got the oomph to stop 'em cold, and it ain't been seen for months. Rumor has it that it's broken, and your Lion might be the missing bit.”

Varda stared at him; the word was ringing oddly in her ears. “Voltron?”

“Whackin' great giant robot thing, mostly legendary.” Stripes shrugged. “Pretty impressive machine either way, that's been making trouble here and there, though you can't quite tell how much. Some newsnets'll play it down to please the Galra, or play it up to annoy 'em. Even if it is as strong as the stories say, it's gonna have its work cut out for it—Empire's too big, too strong, to deep-set to break in a hurry. Emperor's scary-strong, too. Hah. _He's_ half-legend as well, and his witch even more so. S'posed to have lived ten thousand years or more, the pair of 'em, and no Galra gets that long a span. Nah, I'll worry more about his sprat, that Lotor guy. That one's gonna be real trouble, and not just for us.”

Nasty slid him a sly smile. “You think that there'll be a little dynastic trouble?”

Stripes chuffed. “Princes want to be kings.”

Varda was saved from having to comment on this by one of Ronok's kitchen assistants, who told her that her own breakfast was ready and that he'd take over with the cider if she wanted to go and eat. She retreated gratefully into the kitchen, where her food had been set on a small table out of the way. Hot thamst porridge with thelwisk seeds, she was delighted to see, with a few leftover sausages from last night and a tall glass of himra juice. She got on the outside of all of that with dispatch—vivid dreaming was hard work—and turned to watch her uncle at work. Ronok was currently feeding sura melons into the industrial slicer while his helpers mixed and sauced other things in the background.

“Ronok,” she said over the noise of the slicer, “what can you tell me about Voltron?”

The elderly Galra glanced up in concern at her, then scowled down at the spotty red melons. “Not all that much, really. It was built a bit more than ten thousand years ago, as a joint Galra-Altean project on Golraz. That's the original Golraz, not the second one, the first got blown up a little while later. It's a five-part machine, needing five bonded pilots, and each part looks like a big robot cat. Your Lion's one of them, I think. It was made of an extremely rare metal, and the plans were top secret. So secret that no other was ever built. Didn't really need more, since it was the strongest, fastest, most effective war machine out there.”

Varda swirled the last of her juice around in her glass. “Why did they build it?”

Ronok sighed. “Those were bad times. In those days, the Galra Empire was limited to just us Galra, and ruled by the descendants of Modhri the Wise. Damned fine dynasty by all accounts, very dedicated and careful. Unfortunately, some of our neighboring races didn't like how strong our race was getting, or how able that Lineage was, and they assassinated Crown Prince Rhonorath just before his coronation. Between the wrangling of his brothers over the throne, the alien invasions, and the other big interest groups jumping into that sudden power vacuum, things were a terrible mess. Voltron was built to put out those fires. It worked. It worked too well, really. Voltron's pilots had to obey their superiors, and their superiors all had ambitions of their own. That thing wound up working for exactly the sort of oppressors that it had been made to defend against, and more than once, too. It was stolen several times, and went through many teams of pilots. Zarkon himself flew the black Lion before it all came crashing down.”

Varda looked up from her glass sharply. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. Some might call him a war hero. Others would call him a bloodthirsty marauder. Depends on who you ask.” Ronok gave her a thin smile. “During that time, Golraz, his home planet, got smashed to bits by a destroyer fleet sent by the High Council of Galran Prime—a pack of usurping princes and lords—because the last Golrazi King refused to submit his planet and people to their authority. The Golrazi have always been a proud bunch, and they don't like being told what to do. They're a bit inbred these days, 'cause while Voltron was able to hold off the destroyers for a little time, only a few colony ships got away. Somebody had told the Council where those colony ships were going, and the Council laid a trap that claimed most of them... including the ship that carried Zarkon's own family. His parents, aunts, and uncles; his siblings, their cubs. Some say his fiancee died too, although that last probably isn't true, since there's no record of a betrothal ceremony. He wasn't alone in his losses, though. There were only about ten thousand or so surviving Golrazi left. Ten thousand, out of billions. Just enough, barely, to form a stable population. That attack, that betrayal... Zarkon went screaming berserk over that, and it took a while for his teammates to talk him down. After that, the records get a bit confused.”

“He wanted revenge,” Varda said, shifting uneasily. Something about the name “Modhri” had struck a chord deep in her mind, and filled her with longing.

“Did he ever. Nobody's too sure anymore of what happened next, but Voltron spent some time smashing everything in sight, at least until one of the other Paladins—that's what they called the pilots—took it away from him. Didn't slow him down much. By the time he was done, the entire High Council had been slaughtered along with the royal families on every other Galran colony, and Zarkon had set himself up as Emperor. He was determined that nobody would meddle in the destiny of his race ever again... and he was determined to find Voltron so he could make sure of it. The others had hid it from him, you see. They hid it really well, too—only just recently has it come back to light, and Zarkon wants it. He's not used to having to take no for an answer.”

“Who... who are the Paladins now?” Varda asked.

Ronok flicked her a sad smile. “You tell me. You're one of them, you know, even if you don't remember it. The Lion wouldn't answer to you otherwise.”

“Does Yantilee know this?” she asked, and at Ronok's nod Varda swallowed hard, feeling a little betrayed. “Why didn't she tell me?”

“Because you were hurt, and your memory was gone. It's not a good idea to try to force a lost memory, love. We had to give you time to heal, and to remember on your own. I wish that that bastard Plosser hadn't gotten greedy, but we weren't in a position to do much about it. We're trying to give you as much room and time as we can. Besides, Yantilee doesn't know the whole truth of the matter, and still doesn't. She didn't dare tell you what she did know, in case it caused trouble. Misinformation killed her Admiral, her fellow troops, and everything she had worked for and loved for most of her adult life. Yantilee will not say a thing unless she knows it to be true.”

Tears were flowing down her cheeks now, and she felt terribly lonely. Even here among friends and family, she was lost, separated from kin, and felt it keenly. “They will come and find me, won't they?” she asked in a thin little voice.

Ronok nodded and loaded another melon into the slicer. “They won't have a choice. Your Lion will summon theirs to her side, and the Paladins will have to follow. They'll come. Sooner or later, they'll come. That may be what unlocks your memory, and then you'll leave us behind to go save the universe from evil. I'll miss you, you know.”

Varda stood up and went to wrap her arms around Ronok's waist, holding on tight. “I'll miss you, too. I promise to keep in touch, and to visit as often as I can. I'll have everybody make friends with Yantilee, so that we have to come back to visit a lot. Maybe we can work together and you all can become freedom fighters instead of pirates.”

Ronok laughed. “A freedom fighter? At my age? Oh, Gods, don't mention that to Nasty, he'd have a fit. He likes being a bad guy too much to change now. We'll take the future as it comes, girl, just as always, and you'd better get up to the bridge soon, or Yantilee will be annoyed with both of us.”

Varda glanced up at the clock and squeaked in dismay. If there was one thing that Yantilee demanded of her command staff, it was punctuality—she'd have to run the whole way through the secret tunnels to make it there on time. She gave Ronok one last squeeze, piled her dishes into the cleanser, and took off as fast as her feet could carry her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate imagery for first scene:  
> Haggar: *tuttling along on the astral plane* Yoo-hoooo!  
> Green Lion: HONK HONK!!! *VROOOOOMCRASHPOWSPLAT*  
> Haggar: *flies off into the stratosphere*
> 
> As always, thanks to those that commented on our fics! Comments are our reason to live and write, so please keep feeding us! We love hearing what you all think!


	9. New Toys

Chapter 9: New Toys

 

Haggar slumped to the floor of her scrying chamber, gasping, exhausted, angry, and in pain. She was no stranger to weariness and ill temper, but her own personal pain was not a common occurrence. Right now, her left hand felt as though she'd gripped a fistful of live electrical wires. It looked that way, too; seven thin, seeping burns snaked their way up her palm and fingers, and would need attention as soon as she could move. “How did she do that?” Haggar growled to herself. “How did that little _bitra_ learn how to strike back through my controls? Witches decades older than her in the craft have failed to figure that out, and she does it on impulse.”

Haggar drew in a series of calming breaths and replayed the last minute or two of the confrontation in her mind, focusing upon the words that the Paladin had said. Those alone told her all that she needed to know and stirred memories that she hadn't touched in millennia. _“Tahe Moq,”_ Haggar hissed, shoving herself into a sitting position, anger lending her strength. “That rogue witch! Oh, Lizenne, you will pay for that. You shall pay dearly, and all those who slink at your side shall pay the price as well. My search was not entirely fruitless.”

Such things would have to wait, alas. She had spent too much energy and needed to recover. There was her Lord's continuing disinclination to awaken from his coma to consider, the machinations of the Noble Lineages to keep an eye on, and military commanders to terrify. While much of the Empire could be left to run itself, more or less, affairs of state pressed on her regardless of her physical health. Briefly, she regretted disposing of certain of Zarkon's offspring. While they had not come up to the mark in other ways, perhaps some of the brighter ones could have been trained to shoulder some of the load. She had not anticipated that Zarkon would ever fall in battle against anyone or anything; she'd kept him too strong for that, and yet...

And yet his own ambitions and desires had brought him low in the end. She would have to find ways of heading that sort of thing off in the future. He had not only nearly gotten himself killed, but had nearly gotten her killed along with him, something that would never do. She knew very well what happened to a dictatorship when the dictator was abruptly removed. After all, had she not orchestrated several of those removals herself? She had done well to avoid that sort of chaos thus far, but it took time and energy that she could not spare. Oh, well. At least she had backup this time. Heaving herself to her feet, she made her way carefully to her lab, where she treated her hand before accessing her private terminal. Her timing was poor, naturally; Lotor was asleep at the moment, but his lieutenant was easily frightened into waking him up.

“ _What do you want, old woman?”_ the young royal grumbled at her a few minutes later, earning himself a withering glare, which he ignored. _“Have you any idea of what time it is?”_

“No, nor do I care. Your main objective has moved,” Haggar informed him coldly. “The Paladin is still in the Moraug sector, but only just. Fourth Quadrant, in that old globular cluster near Salmaxin Seven. Get moving, boy.”

“ _Salmaxin? That's all the way across the Sector from here! Damn. That fat old ship can't... oh. They must have found time to upgrade their drive, damn them. There are a few smuggler's moons scattered around out here. I'll have to capture a few of those pirates alive, if only to persuade them to tell me where they are. My information extraction specialists have been getting bored, anyway.”_

“So long as you bring back the Lion, it doesn't matter,” Haggar said, and winced as the burns on her hand twinged. “The Paladin, too, if you can manage it. I want a talk with that girl.”

Lotor's yellow eyes narrowed, and a thin smile appeared briefly before vanishing.  _“Being stubborn, is she? Well, it's been some time since either of us faced a worthy challenge. We shall rise to meet it, for the glory of the Empire._ Vrepit Sa, _Lady Haggar.”_

The connection cut off at that point, and Haggar ground her teeth in irritation. _“Vrepit Sa,_ indeed, you arrogant cub,” she muttered sourly. “I shall want a private talk with you as well, to teach you to have respect for your elders. I shall enjoy listening to your pleas for mercy.”

The thought of the Prince strapped to one of the tables in her private lab revived her enough to return to her rooms. She'd had a fair number of his siblings and half-siblings in that position before, and she wondered whether or not he would break as easily as they had.

 

Haggar wasn't the only one who had woken up in a bad mood. Lance burst from his sheets snarling in fury and fell out of bed, and a couple of thumps and yells of outrage from down the hall told him that he wasn't alone in this. Halfway across the Castle, Allura snapped awake with a string of words that scandalized the mice. It was a surly group that came together for breakfast aboard the Castle, and none of the Paladins seemed to have much appetite. Tilla, conversely, looked absurdly pleased with herself and ate her chunks of ornipal meat with gusto.

“There are times,” Kolanth said mildly, “when I envy the witches for their aetheric abilities, and times when I see that my lack of that talent is no bad thing. Did something happen last night?”

Keith growled. “Haggar was sniffing around again, and I think that she's getting closer to Pidge than we are. She didn't catch her, but she came very close. Too close.”

“She almost had her,” Allura said angrily, “I could feel the spells binding them! Like power cables, and just as strong.”

“Yeah, but Pidge knows about cables,” Hunk said with an evil grin. “Current flows both ways. That witch had that good zap coming.”

Lance saluted the others with his fork. “Haggar would've got more than that if she'd hung around any longer. Pidge was really angry. Did you hear her roaring?”

“Couldn't miss it.” Keith jabbed vindictively at his breakfast. “I haven't heard anything like that since that rescue mission to Parzurak. You know, when she got to be one-third of a dragon. That's not a sound that you forget in a hurry.”

“No, no it isn't.” Lance turned a suspicious look upon Tilla, who had finished her breakfast and was watching them with amused eyes. “You know something about this, don't you?”

Tilla settled herself back on her haunches, tail curled around her toes and head cocked to one side, her six eyes wide in catlike innocence. Lance hopped up from his chair and waggled his finger under her nose. “Come on, Tilla, the waifish thing you've got going there isn't convincing. What did you do?”

“ _Gronk,”_ Tilla replied with infuriating smugness.

“Is that all you've got to say?” Lance demanded.

“ _Gronk,”_ Tilla repeated, which only annoyed him further.

“Confess, woman! You did do something, didn't you? Confess!”

“ _Gronk,”_ reiterated the imperturbable Tilla.

Lance glared at her and grabbed the small spines that lined her cheekbones, bringing his face very close to hers. “Confess something that isn't  _gronk,_ already, will you?”

Tilla blinked coquettishly and uttered a delicate, birdlike chirp, and then licked his face from chin to crown with a very large, very wet blue tongue. He jerked back with a wordless exclamation of exasperated disgust, and she took the opportunity to shake herself loose of his grasp and trot out of the room with a saucy toss of her head. Lance, half-blinded, grabbed awkwardly for his napkin and wiped frantically at his face. “Lizenne, what would it take to learn their language? They're impossible to interrogate like this.”

Lizenne smiled. “Roughly seven Zampedran years of going feral on the prairie.”

Lance stared at her. “Seriously?”

“That's how I did it.” Lizenne shrugged. “It's not just vocalizations. It's body language, and culture, and experience. You really need an immersive environment to learn it properly, and it's incredibly complex. I'm decent at it, but not completely fluent yet. Then again, I've never been terribly good at learning languages, other than the swearwords. Modhri's a quicker study than I am. Tilla was teasing you, but she did indeed do something. She just did it some time ago, is all.”

“What did she do?” Coran asked curiously.

Lizenne leaned forward on her elbows, considering her plate. “She gave Pidge a gift of words. From what I could glean from all that gronking, they were quite important words.”

“I'm not sure that I understand that,” Zaianne said.

Lizenne twirled a finger in the air. “In the Mindscape, words have substance and force, and value. Used correctly, they can do all sorts of very real things. A single word can save a life... or end one.”

Modhri smiled. “Tilla is pleased that Pidge used her gift well. My niece has survived, after all, and her enemy was routed with injuries that she will not forget quickly, or so we have been told.”

Lizenne nodded. “All the same, we must find her, and fast. Haggar has set some sort of hex into our girl, and will try again to take control of her. The sooner we foil that aim, the better, and then we may set about teaching that hag a lesson.”

 

“ _Okay, Varda, Segments Six and Seven test clean,”_ Kezz's voice hummed through her comm. _“How are you doing over there?”_

“I'm just about to plug in the last two,” she replied, wiping sweat from her grime-streaked face. “Shouldn't take more than another minute or so. Did you get the new button wired into the control board yet?”

“ _Yup, and a few emergency ones elsewhere, just in case. One in the Captain's quarters, one in the engine deck, one in the mess hall, and another in the docking bay. You never know.”_

That would have been Yantilee's idea, and Varda nodded at the good sense behind it. The Elikonian had survived far too many disasters to put all of his eggs in one basket. A mental query to the ship's AI had Osric pinpointing those switches on her mental map. At least he wasn't fighting her, she mused, making the last few necessary connections to the cloaking system's power source. The _Osric's Quandary_ was a very old ship, nearly four hundred years old and had never once been out of service. The AI, for all that he wasn't as sophisticated as some she'd handled before, was deeply experienced and closer to being a living person than any other that she could remember encountering. He had a definite sense of humor, and opinions of his own that would have surprised the crew very much if they had known about them. He was fond of her, and fond of her Lion, and helped however he could. Well, how could he not? She'd been working hard to keep him alive and running properly since she had discovered her love of technology. Both ship and crew were eager to see if her latest project would give them the edge that they so dearly needed in order to keep ahead of the Empire.

“All right, I'm done,” she told Kezz. “How does it look from your end?”

“ _Let me just run the diagnostic... hmm. Lon, the tenth branch from the bottom looks a little loose. Think you and your team can anchor it down a little better? Yeah, I know it's a tricky part, and... oh. Well, no cookies for him if he keeps filching the fasteners for tying up the silba vines. Maozuh will have his tail as a trophy if she finds out that he's been misappropriating her stock, too, so... yeah, I thought so._ How _many? Well, make good use of them in there, and bring back the rest.”_

Varda smiled. Some of the new Nantileeri were perfectly suited for life on a pirate ship—they were nearly as good as Nasty was at picking pockets and filching small items, but didn't always have good judgment or timing, and Maozuh delighted in bullying them into better behavior.

“ _All right, that looks good. Just march Ordi back to Stores with his little bag when you're done cleaning up. She's been wanting to give him a good shouting-at anyway. Varda, we seem to be ready to try it out. Just come up to the bridge when you're done. Yantilee says that it's your toy, so you should get to play with it first.”_

Varda grinned. “Be right there!”

She packed up her tools and put them away with dispatch, scampering up to the bridge with an anticipatory grin on her face. Yantilee was waiting for her, and waved a hand at a large, sparkling-new red button on the controls. “The observer teams are in place. Go ahead.”

Pidge took up her position, fingertips just touching the button. “All right, people, let's try this out. On my mark! Three! Two! One! Mark!”

So saying, she jabbed the button, and there was a faint, deep-toned whisper of  _“Vooooiiiip!”_ from the speakers as the system engaged. The observer ships—some of Osric's fighters and freight shuttles—whooped and cheered triumphantly, while others exclaimed in amazement.  _“It's gone!”_ one of them reported,  _“The whole ship! None of my sensors are picking it up. I can see a faint shimmer through the viewport, but that's all. Neat! Can you fit the fighters out with that system, too?”_

“Sure, so long as I've got enough of the right parts,” Varda said, keeping her eyes on the power source's readout. It was holding up well, and none of the power leads were overheating.

Meanwhile, Haswick was watching the clock. “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three... ah.”

The speakers emitted a faint  _“Un-vooooiiiip!”_ Varda flicked a disapproving glance at them and muttered, “Osric,” in a chiding tone. There was an unrepentant snicker from the speakers.

“Over a minute. Good,” Yantilee said, sounding entirely satisfied. “That's enough time for a fast getaway or a good surprise attack. This will be an emergency measure, considering that it'll take twenty minutes to recharge, but it will be a very useful one. Well done, Varda.”

Varda allowed herself a moment of pride. Haswick cackled and asked, “Are we going to go and try it out soon?”

Yantilee smiled. “Sure. There's a Galra naval academy not too far from here. Let's go and see if we can lure some young idiot into making a dumb mistake.”

 

Acting-Captain Tamzet was quivering with nerves and doing his best not to show it. This was his very first solo trip in a heavy cruiser, a prestigious command even if it was only an Academy-owned training vessel. Old though it was and had seen more overhauls than Tamzet had seen birthdays, it was still the best craft in the school's small fleet. All of his command staff and crew were fresh from the classrooms as well, and he was having a hard time deciding whether to wish that he had just one seasoned officer on board or to be relieved that he didn't have one breathing down his neck this time. He was the star pupil in the officer's training corps and the latest in a long family tradition of starship captains. If he screwed this mission up, both Commander Dakkal and Aunt Minelar would have his ears for it. Old Dakkal was an understanding sort, most of the time. Aunt Minelar was a terror and let no one forget it.

So far, things were going smoothly. The mission itself was simple enough, being a mock-patrol around the three nearer planets. There had been a few “attacks” from drone fighters along the way to test the crew's capabilities and his competence, and there would be more at random intervals on the way back. This simulated missions through disputed and pirate-infested space, which was important training this far from the heart of the Empire. Tamzet had responded appropriately each time to these upsets and had performed well during the part where they'd had to pass through a portion of the system's asteroid belt—very tricky from a navigational standpoint, that—and was just starting to relax a little. Not much, though. Despite this being a solo run, he was still required to make regular reports to home base, and that always made him nervous. He was just finishing up the latest one when an image bloomed on the forward screens that made him gasp in awe. Staggering clumsily out of hyper was the largest ship that he had ever seen in his life, a vast, elongated ovoid lined with weapon ports along most of its length and modded with odd emplacements and mysterious structures, and the docking bay alone could have held his own heavy cruiser twice over with room to spare. It had been painted daringly in bold sweeps of gold, bronze, and black, and a line of flowing symbols in vivid blue along the prow told him exactly what ship he was looking at.

“ _Tamzet!”_ Commander Dakkal snapped over the comm, _“What's going on?”_

Tamzet swallowed hard. “It's the _Quandary,_ sir, the _Osric's Quandary._ They've come out of hyper right in front of us! It looks like they've got engine trouble.” Tamzet suddenly remembered the huge bounty that had been posted for that ship's capture, and hope bloomed in his heart; even his Aunt wouldn't be able to resist a target like this! “They're listing hard to one side, and their thrusters are firing at random. They're only just out of range of our weapons, sir.”

“Their weapons systems are offline,” his engineer reported, also thinking about that bounty, “I'm seeing serious fluctuations in their power core, sir. We could take 'em!”

“ _Not without backup, you don't,”_ Dakkal snapped, _“dead drive or no, their crew potentially outnumbers yours by a factor of five, and that's counting the Sentries. There are some very unsettling rumors about that ship as well. Keep your distance and do not engage. I am sending the_ Taiz Lanta, _the_ Ildraan, _and the_ Manst _to join you.”_

The huge ship wobbled on its long axis and did a stately barrel roll as one bank of thrusters fired at full blast. Some frantic technician over there must have performed a minor miracle, for a pair of bow thrusters fired at the same time, pointing the great ship away from Tamzet's cruiser in an attempt to flee. It also gave Tamzet's gunner a beautiful view of the flickering drive tubes. Pulses of bluish light emitted from the lesser tubes, a sure sign that the power core was about to go down for keeps.

Tamzet grinned greedily at the screen; in truth, he was not willing to share the bounty over more than the crew compliment of this one ship. “They're trying to run from us, sir, and they'll have no power in a few minutes. Their life-support systems may be impaired as well. I think that we can handle a pack of frightened, disorganized pirates.”

“ _Tamzet, stand down!”_ Dakkal roared, but Tamzet was no longer listening.

The  _Quandary_ seemed to shudder, and flickers of energy crackled over the boldly-painted hull. The pilot must have been truly desperate, for the ship then made a move that was legendary in the annals of starflight: the Smuggler's Dodge. It was basically a tiny hop through hyperspace, using the gravity well of whatever planet it might be near to slingshot itself to a random point a light-minute or two away. A desperate move at the best of times for a small, agile craft, but it was all but suicidal for something as big as the  _Quandary._ The sensors of a pursuing ship could very easily miss the reentry signal from a small boat, but there was no possible way to conceal the signal from something that size. The  _Quandary's_ ruined drive had only been able to move them about one and a half light-minutes distant, although it was at an odd angle and dangerously close to a meteor swarm. 

“Follow them!” Tamzet barked, and his navigator complied instantly, not even sparing the time to tell home base where they were going.

 

Haswick hooted in triumph as the cruiser began its pursuit, and Varda and Kezz were cackling with evil glee. Generations of previous pirate captains had made modifications to the  _Quandary's_ drive systems so that a sufficiently dexterous pilot could put on quite a show to lure prey in with. Osric had quite willingly showed the bridge crew the whole lexicon of misleading special effects, and Haswick had obligingly played the control board like a piano. Kezz, having actually been a smuggler, was a master of the Dodge; he had placed the ship very precisely so that the cloud of space junk was protecting their most vulnerable areas while still keeping the fighter bays clear. Yantilee was watching the cruiser's approach with careful eyes, judging time and range with precision. One big hand touched the internal comms. “All fighters, are you ready?”

“ _Let us at 'em, Captain!”_ the fighter's commander responded cheerfully.

“Good.” Yantilee gazed fixedly at the screens, sparing an eye to watch the instruments with. Finally, he spoke in a voice of command. “Cloak us.”

Varda hit the switch just as the Galra cruiser launched its own fighters, and giggled as they swirled around the parent craft in confusion.

“Launch fighters,” Yantilee commanded, “destroy the drones and disable the cruiser.”

The ship shuddered slightly as the  _Quandary's_ fighters hurled themselves free from their hangars, dodging out in all directions from behind the meteor swarm. They were an oddly-assorted lot, having been bought secondhand or stolen outright from dozens of places over the years, but they were by no means ineffective. Varda made a note to get her cloaking system into them all at some point, even as they raked the cruiser's drive section with bolts of bright fire in long, practiced sweeps and popped the drones like bubbles. The cruiser, badly surprised by these tricks, struggled to defend itself, firing blasts that came too close to the fighters for Varda's comfort.

“Varda, take their AI,” Yantilee said.

Varda reached out immediately, capturing and soothing the agitated computer, blowing the purple taint away and bringing it under her control. It stopped shooting and hung helplessly in space, ready for the boarders, and she sighed a little enviously. She never got to go and play with Nasty and the others.

Yantilee heard her puff that wistful breath and smiled. “Go and join the boarding teams, Varda,” he said generously, “wear your armor and be careful, or Ronok will have my spikes.”

Varda grinned in thanks and ran down to the kitchen—not because she kept her armor there, but because she needed a snack. Ronok had made her promise to eat something after every time she took a ship away from the enemy, and she did not like to disappoint her uncle. The cookie bin still had a few left in it, just enough to supply her with a good sugar rush. Varda made a mental note to add a lockbox to the kitchen storage units; the Nantileeri were now farming all the bugs they needed and shouldn't still be stealing all of her cookies. If they kept this up, Ronok would run out of mettic paste, and that would be a bad thing. She snagged a bulb of juice to wash down the cookies with, wolfed her snack, and then scampered into the back room. The secret passages in the pantry would take her down to the bay faster than any other path.

Varda got there in good time, threw on her armor, holstered her bayard, and ran to join the teams by the boarding shuttles. Nasty, who was among the best of the close-combat fighters, welcomed her into his shuttle with a ferocious grin, and then they were off.

“Stay close to me,” Nasty told her as she sat fidgeting in her seat, “Galra soldiers tend not to back down much, and that stupid philosophy of theirs makes them stand and fight when they really should be surrendering. They make dumb assumptions around people smaller than them, too. They're stronger than they look, though, so press any advantage you get. Aim low, bring them down to our level, and a good crack across the head will stun them for long enough to get the cuffs on. Secure their legs as well as their arms, and their arms behind their backs. Galra have claws and aren't afraid to use them.”

Varda nodded slowly. “I think I remember something about that. Galra women can eviscerate people with their thumbnails. I think that I saw one do that, once.”

Nasty grunted and handed her a bundle of cuff restraints. “I wouldn't know, but I've never met with a female. They're rare. Anyway, after you've got them tied up, just leave them there. The big guys'll drag them into the bridge for us for safekeeping, so we can loot the ship. Oh, hey, that means that you'll get first pick of the tech stuff this time!”

“Yay!” said Varda.

One of the other pirates chortled and hefted his weapon, a big, heavy-bore stun cannon that the Gantars referred to as a “dinner gun”. “Work first, then play. Remember that this bunch'll be young, and that makes 'em unpredictable. If we start having trouble, get behind me. I'll lay 'em low for you, Miss.”

She patted him on one big knee. “Thank you very much, crewman Varis, that's very gentlemanly of you.”

“Awww,” he said bashfully, blushing a darker blue.

There was a bump as their shuttle made contact with an airlock, and a grinding noise as the shuttle secured itself thereto. Varda raised a hand warningly before the pilot could pop the hatch. “Hold on,” she said, “just let me make sure that there aren't any surprises.”

They obligingly paused while she worked. They'd found that it was easier to subdue a captured ship's crew if she let their victims believe that they still had control of their Sentries; that way, the robots could get right up close to the soldiers and surprise them when the time was right. This time was no different. No boarding shuttle had breached the hatches yet for that very reason, and the live soldiers inside had fallen for it yet again. There was indeed a group just inside the hatch, all ready to fire on the pirates. Varda told the Sentries to do something different. “Okay,” she said after a minute, “tell everybody that they can go in, now.”

The pilot grinned and threw a switch. The hatch popped with a loud  _“Spunggg!”_ , and the pirates piled through with a roar, Varda and Nasty shoulder-to-shoulder among them. Most of the would-be surprise party were already in no condition to resist, thanks to the suborned Sentries, and those that were left fell quickly. They secured those with dispatch, then set about clearing the rest of the ship. Throughout it all, Varda felt as though she were flying, and not merely from the effects of that handful of cookies that she'd eaten. It was more that she was fighting well, and fighting with friends at her back, and fighting a foe that did not know how to deal with her talents. Time flew, and she flew with it, and was almost disappointed when the last Galra soldier on their deck had been knocked down and secured.

“ _Hey, Nasty, how're you and your lot doing?”_ she heard Nasty's comm say; he was communications officer for their team this time.

“All clear from the looks of things,” Nasty replied, quirking a questioning eyebrow at Varda and receiving a nod in return. “Anybody in the detention units?”

“ _Nope. Training craft, right? They've been using the cells as extra storage space. I'm told that Varda's with you. Can she see any more loose ones, other than on the bridge? If not, tell her to get up to the command deck; they've locked off the bridge with a system that the local AI can't even see. For all I know, they've barred the doors with a broom.”_

“Coming!” Varda said after a moment's thought, and trotted to the nearest lift.

 

Cold sweat was trickling down Tamzet's spine now, and he wasn't alone in that. The one small part of him that wasn't trying to dissolve into mindless terror was very impressed with how smoothly the pirates had lured them in, isolated them from help, and then disabled his ship. He hadn't known that it was possible to fake that much systems damage, and neither had his engineer, who was too torn between admiration and indignation right now to speak in anything but mechanic's profanity. “Any luck yet?” he asked the comm officer, who was slightly calmer.

“No!” the comm officer hissed back. “They've suborned the ship's AI completely. I can't get any signals out or in, and they've taken the drones and Sentries, too. They could cut the gravity if they wanted to, or the life support, or anything, and we can't stop them! What are we going to do?”

Tamzet mused that if he died nobly today, he would save his Aunt the trouble of killing him. “Taklos, can you lock the doors so they can't get in? That mutineer sim might do it. The locking system's separate from the ship's controls.”

His engineer cast him a sidelong glance. “Sure, but what good would that do? We'll just be penned up in here.”

“Pirates generally want to take the helm of a ship. If they waste enough time struggling with those locks, those three ships the Commander sent after us might arrive soon enough to effect a rescue.”

Taklos vented something that might have been a laugh in a previous life. “That's a tough one; hope for help or get massacred by bloodthirsty pirates. Either way, the Old Man's going to give us hell for this. You sure you don't want to go down fighting?”

Tamzet bared his teeth at the huge ship filling the screen. The vanishing trick that it had pulled worried him deeply. If the _Quandary's_ captain decided to share that little innovation with the other fighting ships out here, the Empire fleets were going to be in real trouble. “We may have to. Lock the doors, Taklos.”

Taklos did that, and for the next few minutes, they sat in worried silence while watching the screens and listening to the comm officer curse softly at his control board. The _clunk_ of something hitting the doors made them all jump and stare nervously at that portal, and a few more knocks and rattles had them reaching for their sidearms. There was a faint mutter of conversation, a few pings and clanks that could have been anything, and finally, the sound of the locks disengaging one by one.

“Really good locksmith,” Taklos muttered, taking aim at the doors.

Tamzet swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The doors slid open, and Tamzet and his men opened fire. A wasted effort; nobody was there. No, wait, something large and dark moved in the shadows at the end of the hall, and they were just drawing a bead on that movement when something small rattled over the floor. Tamzet got a glimpse of a tiny cylinder before it burst into a flash of brilliant light, blinding everyone in the room. Tamzet uttered a shriek of pain and rage and charged the foe instinctively despite his streaming, outraged eyes. His sensitive ears picked up a hissing sound at ankle level, but it was already too late. His foot snagged on something that felt like a cable, and he went over like a tree, hitting the decking with a stunning impact. A heavy weight descended on his back at that point, and he felt his arms being dragged behind him and cuffs closing tight over his wrists and ankles.

“Rang his chimes good and proper,” an unfamiliar voice said as he was lifted up by the scruff of his neck and deposited on his knees, “nice shot, Varda. _Cronasp,_ but these kids are young. First solo mission, do you think?”

“Probably,” another voice said, “unless the guys find the real captain holed up somewhere, blitzed on horath. Okay, people, we've secured the bridge. Bring up the prisoners and start stripping this tub down. Got a problem, Varda?”

“It was over too quickly,” a girl's voice complained, making the others laugh.

“Believe me, this is just how we like it best,” the first speaker told his unsatisfied companion, “short and sweet's better than protracted any day of the week. Just you sit tight and watch the stars for us until we get all the prisoners dragged up here, and then you can go claim your share of the loot. Saw some decent stuff in the medical section on the way up. Doc's going to want that. Might check the kitchens for a new mixer, too, and see if the nutrifabber's any newer than the one we've got. Ronok's about fed up with the way ours spits sauce in his ear when he isn't looking.”

“Again? I thought I'd fixed that thing!” that was the girl again, sounding exasperated as a group of large aliens filed out. “I sometimes wonder if that haunted toaster oven's contagious or something. Nasty, quit trying to pick their pockets. Those uniforms don't have any, anyway.”

Tamzet yelped in protest as a quartet of slim hands patted him down. “You never know,” a dry, sly voice that Tamzet identified as coming from an Unilu said right in his ear. “My granny had so many hidden pockets sewn into her clothing that there was barely room for her in them, and she rattled with every step after coming home from a walk in the marketplace. Hurry up and reboot your head, girl. I need to teach you how to pick a pocket properly, as it's traditional to keep a memento of your first capture.”

“He's not my first, Nasty,” the girl said, and came around to where Tamzet could see her. “My first was a lot bigger, and the memento he left... I think it nearly wrecked the ship we were on.”

Tamzet stared. He recognized this person instantly—everyone in the Military had been required to memorize what the Paladins looked like, and standing right in front of him was the green one. _Technomage,_ he remembered from the dossier he'd been given, and a damned dangerous one. Well, that explained what had happened to the ship's AI. She was a lot smaller than he'd expected.

The Unilu humphed, but left off of his patdown. “Yeah, sometimes they can carry ringers like that. Those little floaty drones? Sometimes they explode. Maozuh won't have any of them in her stacks. Come on, girl, at least gloat at him a little. He is a defeated enemy, after all. It's what they're for.”

She smiled and bent forward, bringing her hands up under Tamzet's chin and running the fingers through his fur with surprising gentleness. “Nah, he's too cute. The first time I saw one of these guys, I had a terrible urge to rub him behind his fuzzy ears. It was a shame that he was nearly three meters of solid evil.”

The Unilu snorted. “That didn't stop you from tickling a Ghamparva. Or biting that Blade of Marmora on the ankle. I still can't believe that you did that.”

“I only use my powers for good,” the Paladin said loftily, and turned her gaze back to Tamzet. “What's your name, sweetie?”

Tamzet pulled at the cuffs holding his wrists, but didn't dare move otherwise. If the Unilu wasn't lying, this person had taken liberties with members of two of the most feared organizations in the universe, and not only was still alive and free, but had her fingers pressed into the skin less than an inch from his carotid arteries. “Tamzet, Paladin,” he said meekly, “Acting-Captain Tamzet.”

She nodded, tilting his chin up so that he was forced to look into her eyes, which were the same amber color as a cub's. “You did a very silly thing back there, Tamzet. You don't _ever_ rush into a dangerous situation without backup. The red Paladin's done that a few times, and it's nearly gotten him killed. Lizenne had to scold him about that once or twice.”

Tamzet choked in shock—he knew that name. “The... the rogue witch?”

The Paladin frowned and turned to the Unilu. “I thought that was me?”

“There are more than just you out there. Lizenne's a little bit of a legend,” the Unilu replied. “It's said that she laid a death-curse on Zarkon and Haggar, and summoned a demon that burned his favorite henchman to death. She's also passed some good info to a few of the other pirate captains here and there, and can hypnotize whole slave populations into unstoppable uprisings. There's a lot more than that, but most of it's pretty obviously exaggerated. You've met her?”

“I think so,” one of the Paladin's hands slid up along the side of Tamzet's head to tug thoughtfully at his ear. Tamzet shuddered. “She's tall, and bossy, and is a first-class witch, and she taught us how to fight the Druids. That's really tricky, you know, until you start being able to feel where they're going to jump to. Tamzet here looks a little like her. Same sort of ears, I think.”

The Unilu moved around for a better look. He wasn't much taller than the Paladin, and looked like something out of a historical record. His people had been difficult to civilize, or so Tamzet's history teachers had said, and he could believe it. The little alien positively bristled with sharp edges. He studied Tamzet with narrow, pale, appraising eyes, the tiny pupils worryingly direct. “Yeah, he's the standard sort of Galra, all right. They come in a bunch of types, see? There's a Namturan over there, and that one looks like he's got a little Simadhi blood in him, and this one's Golrazi. Looks a bit like Zarkon, doesn't he?”

The Paladin looked up at Tamzet's crewmates. “I like the fuzzy ones best. The Golrazi and Kedrekans look more like lizards, and the Nantileeri carry that off better.”

The Unilu laughed. “Don't they, though? There's another sort that's really rare out here—the Palabekans. Those have fuzzy tails as well as fuzzy ears, and it's hard to get them down out of the trees.”

The Paladin looked thoughtful for a moment, rubbing the tip of Tamzet's ear absently between thumb and forefinger. “I've met one of those. She had cubs. Eight of them, and the little girl liked to bite everybody on the shins.”

“Yeah, and I bet she bit your Marmoran, too.”

“Nope. She got their leader, though. You should have heard him cuss!”

“Oh, great, now I _really_ want the whole story, even if it takes all night to tell it!” The Unilu made an exasperated noise. “Ah, here come the guys with the rest of them. Hey, Zardruss, had any trouble?”

Tamzet saw an arm as thick around as his thigh deposit a trio of unconscious crewmen on the decking next to him. “Not much. Goofy kids, all impulse, no brains. This little idiot--” another of Tamzet's crewmates was plopped down on his knees, staring around groggily, “--he was actually trying to show off for the others, going after Varis with a broken-off flagpole. Varis laid the whole team out flat with that stun cannon of his before this _urnak_ ever got close. Just dazed him, points for persistence and all that, but it don't make him any smarter.”

The Paladin made a rude noise and moved away from Tamzet, much to his relief, and went to stand before the stunned crewman. Larkash, Tamzet saw when she lifted off his helmet; not one of his favorite classmates. “And you're even sillier than your captain is,” she scolded, waggling the Finger of Doom in his face, making him go cross-eyed with the effort of focusing on it. “The blue Paladin still does that, and gets smacked down just as hard. Don't do that.”

“You aren't s'posed to be giving 'em pointers, Miss,” the massive alien told her.

She sniffed primly. “If they graduate while still being as bad at this sort of thing as they are now, I'll be too embarrassed to fight them. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go and see if the kitchen has equipment that doesn't spit slook sauce at people.”

Tamzet watched her trot out of the room and glanced around at his fellow captives. They all seemed to be in one piece, at least, although several were unconscious or bruised. As for the pirates, there were only a handful, but they all had weapons and they never took their eyes off of Tamzet and the others. After a time, the Unilu's comm pinged. _“All right, gents, we're done and Cap'n says to come home. There are three other ships hunting around out here, and they're starting to get a little closer than he likes. Varda says to leave the boys a key, Nasty, it's only fair.”_

“Gotcha,” the Unilu replied, and waved his hands at his fellows. “You heard the boss, guys, time to clear out. And as for you lot,” he turned and chucked Tamzet beneath the chin with one thin hand, “you all should thank the Luck that the little lady likes your furry ears. If Plosser was still in charge, you'd be sitting in the brig right now, waiting to be sold at market the next time we came to port, or stripped naked and left to explain yourselves to your superiors if the brig was already full. Hah. He might even have had you shaved bald, too, if you'd annoyed him enough and we'd had the time. Instead, you get to keep a little dignity... and this.”

The key glinted in the Unilu's hand like a gem as he placed it on the floor before Tamzet. “I've heard that Galra can be a pretty limber bunch. Good luck with that. Nice doing business with you, gentlemen, I hope to meet up with you again sometime. Cheers.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the center of our universe. Please keep us in proper orbit by letting us know what you think. Like it? Want to guess at what happens later? Just want to see us make happy whale sounds? Drop us a line!


	10. A Key For A Lock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, everyone! After more than a month of absence, Sterling reappeared on our back porch! He's lost a good third of his weight, but he's alive and healthy. The entire family is so relieved and grateful for this little holiday miracle.

Chapter 10: A Key For A Lock

 

By the time that help arrived, Tamzet had managed to get himself and his crew freed from their bonds, a mercy that he was willing to appreciate. While Commander Dakkal was not particularly pleased with him for falling for the pirates' ruse, he did confide to him in that the Unilu had not been lying. Many older and more seasoned captains had made the same mistake, and had fared far worse in the recent past. The _Quandary,_ he was told, had a frightening reputation, and while it was heartening to know that someone had finally dealt with the notorious Captain Plosser, the fact that they had a Paladin working for them was not. Voltron alone was very bad news. Voltron with allies, especially wildly unpredictable allies with no respect for anyone's laws and strong black-market connections... _that_ didn't bear thinking about.

On the whole, it could have been a lot worse, Tamzet knew, although he didn't think that he would ever live down the fact that one of the foremost enemies of the Empire thought he was cute. Or—and he would never admit this to anybody—the fact that he could respect and even like her a little for treating him and his crew as though they were people, instead of as property or as something to abuse. He dealt with that by throwing himself into his work, which was considerable; he still had to get his ship back to home base, and the drive section was a mess, and the ship was missing a lot of important equipment. Engineering and parts storage had been cleaned out entirely, along with most of the sick bay's best equipment, and the kitchen and pantries had been stripped bare. The weapons lockers were empty along with the ship's own ordinance, the shield generators were gone, and even the ion cannon had been pulled apart and the inner mechanisms stolen. Every single drone and Sentry on board had shut down so completely that no amount of Taklos's swearing could get them to reactivate, and the AI had been wiped as well. Every crewman's cabin had been gone through with a fine-toothed comb, although that had been done with a peculiarly meticulous care; anything of simple monetary value was gone, of course, and a surprising number of secret hiding places had been discovered and emptied, but there hadn't been any unnecessary destruction. Items like images of family and small keepsakes and charms had been left alone, which made Tamzet wonder about the pirates a little. Just about the only systems on the ship that were still intact were the power core and the stardrive itself, and that was only because the pirates hadn't had time to work on them. In the end, the _Manst_ and the _Ildraan_ were forced to tow the poor thing home, which took three times longer than it would have if the pirates hadn't blown the insystem drive.

To say that the Academy's ship techs were upset about the state of the once-proud ship was to say that white stars were a bit warm, but it gave the engineering and repair trainees their first real challenge, so that was all right. Tamzet found himself on punishment duty for his poor judgment, but fairly light duty for all of that. Even the inevitable scorcher of a message from Aunt Minelar—the Academy's weapons-master was one of her cousins—wasn't too bad. He was just starting to relax a little when the fleet appeared.

Not just any fleet. _Prince Lotor's fleet._ Over a hundred ships, all in need of supplies. The Academy and the planetary industries that supported it were thrown into a flurry of activity for several days while the Prince's demands were met, every trainee and cadet was forced to work double or even triple shifts to get everything done on time, and every single member of the Academy's faculty was required to meet with the Prince himself to report on local events. Tamzet, already stressed and underslept from the punishing schedule, soon found himself staring in horror at a message from the Commander that required him to do the same. The Prince had been pirate-hunting of late, and was very interested in a certain corsair.

_Well, of course,_ he thought as he cleaned himself up for the interview and dug his dress uniform out from under a pile of textbooks,  _if there's a Paladin aboard the_ Quandary, _the Lion can't be far behind._ Everyone _knows that the Emperor wants the Lions. Why am I hoping that the Paladin will get away?_

He shook his head at himself and pulled on the stiff uniform, and then made his way to the Academy's private audience chamber. The guards let him in when he showed them the Commander's message, and he was treated to the sight of the entire command staff of the Academy arrayed around one of the most important people in the universe. Tamzet was actually slightly disappointed; the Prince looked nothing at all like his father. Lotor was tall and slender, with the whipcord muscularity that denoted an expert swordsman, and his mother must have been Namturan, perhaps with a little bit of Simadhi blood in there that gave him a long mane of silver hair and made his already light coloration look almost blue. He was handsome to the point of being beautiful, although the fierce topaz eyes and the habitual arrogance on those proud features just barely saved him from being pretty. Mindful of the manners that his Aunt had drummed into him from an early age, Tamzet bent the knee and bowed his head before the young royal. “Your Highness,” he murmured respectfully.

“These gentlemen tell me that you were Acting-Captain on the most recent training voyage of the _Asrithar,”_ Lotor said without preamble, “and that you had an... unfortunate encounter with an example of the local vermin. You will tell me exactly what happened, boy. Leave nothing out.”

Tamzet swallowed hard and got a grip on his memory. “Yes, your Highness. We had just passed the halfway point of our assigned patrol and were on the return leg of the journey when the  _Osric's Quandary_ came out of hyper right in front of us, apparently in severe distress. Our instruments detected drive failure, inactive weapons, core fluctuations, malfunctioning insystem thrusters, and a damaged stardrive... none of which was real, my Lord. We were lured into chasing them.”

The Prince smirked, and Tamzet remembered that the Prince also had a reputation for being very hard on underlings who had failed him. “Hoping to net yourself a fine bounty, eh?”

“That had occurred to me, my Lord,” Tamzet admitted. “It was a mistake. I should not have pursued without waiting for backup.”

Large, wide-set topaz eyes glittered with cruel humor in that aristocratic face. “I expect that quite a lot of people have told you that, repeatedly and at length. Nonetheless, you continued, and found yourself surprised.”

“They performed a Smuggler's Dodge, my Lord, and we pursued. Then they vanished just as we came within range.”

“ _Vanished?”_ Lotor asked.

“Yes, my Lord. They were right there, near a meteor swarm, and then they were gone. None of our instruments could find them.” Tamzet shivered, remembering the sight of that behemoth simply disappearing before his eyes like a ghost. “It only lasted a minute or so, but by then it was too late. The _Quandary_ had moved into an attack position, and their fighters had already strafed our engine deck. Then our ship stopped listening to us—the AI had been corrupted, and the drones and Sentries turned on us a little time later. The green Paladin was with the boarding crews, and it's well-known that she's a technomage. We fought as well as we could, but we were badly outnumbered. I and the rest of the bridge crew secured the helm, hoping that help would arrive in time, but we were not that fortunate.”

“You could not aid your men?” the Prince asked.

“No, my Lord. We had no communications or control of any of the defensive systems, nor could we improvise any. We and the crew were captured very quickly, and I can only be relieved that nobody was seriously hurt or killed during that time.”

Lotor gave him a hard look. “I am told that you were not able to hold the bridge for long, and that you in particular reacted poorly when the doors were forced.”

Tamzet cringed. “Reflex, my Lord. The Paladin is a skilled witch and popped the locks without difficulty. We did manage to fire our weapons before one of the pirates threw a flash grenade into the room. That was what did us in. One of my girl-cousins used to steal those from her father's desk drawers whenever she could, and played pranks on me and my brothers with them. I was temporarily blinded, and one of the pirates tripped me.”

Lotor vented an amused snort. “At least you are willing to admit your mistakes. Refreshing. I am told that some few of the pirates stayed on the bridge to stand guard over you and your men, and had a conversation. You will repeat to me what you can remember of it.”

Tamzet did his best, not trying to gloss over the more embarrassing moments, although the Prince did smirk again when he reported the Paladin's preference for furry ears. It had sounded like casual conversation to him, for the most part, anyway, but Lotor seemed to find deeper meanings in certain of what the Paladin had said. Indeed, the Prince looked quite thoughtful by the time that he'd finished.

“Interesting. It seems that my Father's witch didn't botch that spell entirely after all. From the sound of it, she's having trouble with her memory, which would explain why the other Paladins are not with her. I wonder who captains that ship now?”

“They didn't say, my Lord,” Tamzet replied, “but it is clear that the Paladin ranks highly among them. Nobody cared to argue with her when she insisted on leaving us a key.”

Lotor nodded. “Yes. Well done, boy, you have my thanks. Keep up with your studies, and perhaps you will command a ship in my personal fleet one day. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, your Highness. _Vrepit Sa,_ ” Tamzet said, and made his escape.

 

“ _I've found her!”_ Kolanth's voice rang joyously through the comms.

This announcement had an immediate effect upon everyone. There was a great deal of splashing in the upside-down pool as Lance, Coran, and Keith, who had finally figured it out, swam furiously for the ladder. Hunk abandoned a pan of fresh-baked cookies, Modhri left a repair job on the engineering deck unfinished, there was more splashing in the hot tub as the ladies dove for the drying tube, the mice ran squeaking from their inner fastnesses; even the dragons abandoned their naps and came running to the bridge. They arrived in a group, shoving, complaining, and gronking at each other to get out of the way, already, only to go silent when they saw what Kolanth had brought up on the screens. Bold headlines screamed at them from a dozen tabloid publications, images aplenty showing dozens of views of a familiar subject. The vast, blimp-like hull of the  _Osric's Quandary_ shimmered and vanished over and over in the short video loops that decorated the screens, slightly-blurry long-distance images showed views of space battles and damaged Galra ships, and images of unfamiliar aliens and rather inexpert drawings had been crammed into what space was left. Most encouraging of all was a tiny square that Kolanth had highlighted in one of the long-scope images; it was minuscule, even under magnification, but it was unmistakable—the feline shape of the green Lion.

The Paladins cheered to see that; they'd only recently been cleared to fly the Lions themselves, and to see Pidge being way ahead of them as usual was enormously encouraging. “She's all right!” Lance said, sounding vastly relieved. “Where is she?”

“It varies,” Kolanth replied, pulling up a list on a tertiary screen. “Pirates have to keep moving over a large area, and there are smuggler's havens and dark ports out there that even we Blades don't know about. They're out of the Moraug Sector now and into the Bamnapos—a fringe area, but still rich enough to attract Imperial interests. Not too far from where we are now, thankfully, and they're doing well enough even with Lotor's fleet hunting them. She's given them her cloaking system, see?”

“Yeah, and it looks like they're having fun with it,” Keith said, grinning cheerfully. “That's some ship. Even without Pidge grabbing his AI, I'll bet that the _Quandary_ could put a hole or two in Lotor's flagship. What do all those headlines say?”

Before Kolanth could reply, Hunk pulled something out of a pocket and held it up. “I've got that, guys. I was fiddling around in the lab earlier and came up with a translator. I would've tried it out earlier, but we ran out of cookies again. Shove over, Kolanth? Thanks.”

Hunk put a boxy object on the console and plugged it into a handy port; the screens rippled slightly as the text changed from dozens of different alien alphabets to three separate subscripts: Terran English, Altean, and Galra.

“That's very good, Hunk!” Allura exclaimed, watching the text change into something that she could read. “Oh...!”

_**GHOST SHIP SEEKS IMPERIAL BLOOD!!!** _ screamed the biggest headline, followed by a smaller but no less dramatic caption:  **_Green Demon Lion declares vendetta on Galra ships—no one is safe!!!_ **

The other headlines were similarly overheated.

_**GHOST SHIP PIRATES HAVE SUPER POWERS, SAY VICTIMS!!!** _

_**GREEN DEMON LION HAS POWER OVER DRONE FIGHTERS, TURNS THEM AGAINST GALRA SHIPS!!!** _

_**GHOST SHIP PIRATES HAVE NO MERCY—PREFER TO SHAME VICTIMS RATHER THAN OFFER HONORABLE DEATH!!!** _

“Busy little girl, isn't she?” Modrhi said proudly.

Hunk laughed at a particularly bad artist's impression of the green Lion. “Guys, check this out! I think that the only thing this guy got right was the color. The flames are a nice touch.”

“And the horns and spikes,” Lance agreed. “I like the sabertoothed look. Think that I can fit Blue out with a pair of those?”

“I don't think she'd go for it,” Keith said thoughtfully, “or for the extra pair of legs. What was that guy smoking?”

“I don't know, but this is magnificent!” Coran said happily. “I haven't seen anything like this since old Alfor's second cousin borrowed a keg of horath and a battletank and went on a tear in downtown Altanis City with two or three of his girlfriends. The man just wasn't happy unless he was in the news.”

Allura laughed. “Pidge also has some opinions, and some preferences that already have the rumor mills spinning. Keith, Lance, look at this one!”

_**GHOST SHIP AMBUSHES TRAINEE CRAFT NEAR ORPAXUS NAVAL ACADEMY!!! GREEN DEMON LION AVATAR SPARES CAPTAIN AND CREW DUE TO SALACIOUS PREFERENCE FOR YOUNG GALRA MEN!!! SAYS “FUZZY EARS ARE CUTE”!!!** _

_**Member of bridge crew reports that Avatar scolded captain, calling him “silly” for falling into ambush. Says he “should never rush into dangerous situations without backup—Red Lion Avatar did that, and was nearly killed!!”** _

Lance burst into hoots of laughter while Keith glared at him.

Hunk smirked. “Read down a little further, Lance. She's got something to say about you, too.”

_**Other crewmember also reportedly scolded by Lion Avatar—Being a showoff in battle is just as silly as rushing in alone; Blue Lion Avatar gets “smacked down just as hard”!!** _

Lance stared at that line of text, his humor replaced by an affronted expression that made his companions grin. “All right. Keith, truce until we can give Pidge a spanking?”

“Truce,” Keith said, and shook Lance's hand on it.

Hunk snickered. “Coran, can we print out hardcopies of these? I'm going to frame them and hang them up in her room.”

Coran gave him an odd look. “Sure, but don't you think that she'd object? A lot of those headlines aren't all that complimentary, you know.”

Hunk propped his hands on his hips and gazed admiringly at the tabloid trash on the screens. “So what? All of these are like badges of honor. She's alive, active, and having fun, and the enemy can't stop her, or even get close! Even if she doesn't like them, I'll hang them up in the lab so we've got something to point and laugh at while we're working. Where's the printer on this console?”

“She's also setting trends,” Zaianne observed with a chuckle. “Look at all of the hair-care advertisements! Particularly ear hair, I see.”

Lizenne laughed and dug her fingers into the soft fur behind Modhri's right ear. “Methinks furry ears are going to be very fashionable in that sector for a while. Hah! Makes me happy.”

Modhri gave her an adoring look. “Me, too.”

“Get a room, you two,” Lance sighed and flashed a smile at Allura. “Want to see if we can catch up with a ghost ship, Princess?”

“Of course!” Allura said, leaping up onto the pilot's dais.

 

Varda sat nestled in one of the pilot's chairs on the bridge, munching cookies and watching the boarding teams finish up. It had been a good catch—two light cruisers—but she hadn't felt quite up to tagging along. The nutrifabber that they'd taken from the training ship had been slightly newer than Ronok's, but it had a few fairly serious problems of its own, and her pride had forbade her from giving up entirely on the original. Both machines seemed to be determined to fight her to the last diode, and still spat sauce at unsuspecting passersby. The puzzle had kept her up all night for several nights running, and Maozuh had found her passed out amidst the machine's guts that morning for the second time. This had earned her not only a scolding from Maozuh, but from Ronok as well, and even a word or two from Yantilee, who took her well-being very seriously. She wasn't looking forward to hearing Doc's opinion the next time he called her in for a checkup.

The oddly-mixed fighter squadron had done its job with skill and dispatch. Nearby space was littered with the remains of several drone fighters that had been flying escort around the two larger ships; Haswick had murmured something about paranoid captains that Vorlenn had grunted dismissively at. Yantilee had ignored them both and was watching the long-range scans with care. The Elikonian's nerves had been twitching again, and Yantilee did not ignore her hunches. Varda was content to watch Kezz. As good at handling the  _ Quandary's  _ controls as he was, he had originally been trained as a fighter pilot, and he was never happier than when he was in the cockpit of his fierce little Tambrashti Bamzu. Most of the other fighters were either back in the bay or escorting the freight shuttles home, but Kezz was currently polishing up his stunt-flying skills around the two crippled cruisers.

Yantilee vented a deep grunt and scratched at the ridge of glinting blue feathers that lined her long throat when Kezz swooped daringly around one cruiser's gunports, a dangerous maneuver even when the ship was inactive. She looked about ready to contact him and cuss him out for being an idiot; it was rare, but sometimes a ship's proximity sensors would activate the guns regardless of any orders to stand down, and Kezz was too valuable to waste. One big hand was already starting to drift over to the comm button when the stars to the galactic northwest rippled like a shower of rain hitting a pond, and then a whole fleet of Galra ships appeared, and not a small one, either. There were more than a hundred ships in that armada; the largest of them was nearly as big as the  _ Quandary, _ and the smallest was easily twice the size of the light cruisers that they'd caught.

Haswick and Vorlenn yelped and swore in shock, and Varda had dropped her cookie and leaped to her feet. Yantilee, on the other hand, was not so easily startled. Her hand completed its comm-ward drift in triple time, and her stentorian voice boomed,  _ “Inside! All boarding crew will return to ship instantly! Galra fighters incoming, our fighters will defend the shuttles! _ Move,  _ people!” _

Then, in a more normal tone of voice, “Damn. That's the Prince's private fleet or I'm a mettic beetle. Varda, can you do something about those?”

Varda reached out confidently towards the fleet closing in on them, aiming for the biggest on the theory that the largest target would be the easiest to hit. To her vast surprise, her grab bounced right off of something slick and hard and stinking, that vibrated with a terrible buzz that rattled her teeth and made her head ache. She tried again with the same result, and a third time with no luck at all. “I can't. I can't touch them!”

Yantilee growled. “Huh. Leave off, then. Kezz! Disable one of those drones, but don't destroy it. Drag it back to the docking bay and get an isolation rig set up around it. Varda needs something to study. Is everyone else in?”

“ _On it!”_ Kezz called back. _“Last shuttle's on its way. By the time I've got our girl a sample, everyone will be inside. We're going to have to leave in a hurry, Captain, that's a capitol ship and none of its buddies are anything less than destroyers and heavy cruisers. I think that we've managed to upset someone a little further up the chain of command this time.”_

“That was inevitable,” Yantilee replied. “Shields up, Haswick. Vorlenn, fire when the enemy's in range. Varda, I said to stop that!”

Varda had not given up when she had been told to, and was now struggling to get through to the drone fighters. A whole swarm of them were converging on Kezz's little fighter, and she was damned if she was going to see him blown to atoms! She was soaked in sweat and on her knees when Yantilee's knuckle clipped her lightly behind the ear, breaking her concentration; gasping, she sagged to the floor.

“You will not exhaust yourself—not until we're somewhere safe,” Yantilee snapped, craning her neck around to watch Kezz's antics. “Hah. Kezz has just picked you up a toy to play with, so eat your cookies. Kezz, mark when you are in and docked.”

“ _Gotcha,”_ Kezz replied tensely as Vorlenn sent brilliant bolts of energy from the _Quandary's_ guns to discourage pursuit; a minute or two later, he shouted: _“Mark!”_

“Cloak and bail!” Yantilee snapped.

Vorlenn hit the button, and a faint voice from a nearby speaker whispered,  _ “Really fast vooooiiiip!” _

“Osric!” Varda hissed around a mouthful of cookies; she was suddenly famished.

Further commentary was unnecessary, for Vorlenn had sent them away through hyperspace.

 

Lotor stared at the patch of empty space where a Sikkhoran Grand Freighter had recently been, and a slow, sly smile spread over his face even as the comm channels filled with exclamations of anger and disappointment from his many ships. “The boy was right,” he murmured half to himself, “it _does_ simply vanish without a trace. This will be more fun than I had thought, and our forces will do well to appropriate that system. I am a little disappointed that the Lion did not come out to play, but one can't have everything. Not all at once, anyway. Find that ship! I will have that cloaking system for our own.”

 

Varda glared at the disabled fighter. Kezz was an artist with his guns, that was for sure; the drone's gunports and engines had been expertly slagged, but the thing was still active. Active enough to be a threat to the ship despite its immobility, and the dockjocks had brought out the heavy-duty containment rig to keep it from infecting the _Quandary's_ AI with its virus. It seemed to sprawl in its confinement like an angry animal, and she could feel it hating her. Varda had never met with a computer system that she couldn't sweet-talk before, and her own pride forbade her from giving up on this project. It was more than pride, really, it was prudence; if they wanted to survive the attentions of that fleet, they needed every edge that they could get, and that meant cracking that godsdamned code!

She growled in frustration, rubbing at her tingling teeth. It had been days since the Prince's fleet had first surprised them, just how many she wasn't sure anymore, but that first sighting hadn't been the last. They were being pursued, and apparently that flagship had all the latest equipment available for hunting fugitive ships. For his part, Yantilee was treating the chase as a scientific experiment; the Elikonian was very clever and very cautious, and was using their pursuit to study their foes' capabilities. He was planning something, that was for sure, and the whole crew was hoping that he knew what he was doing. In the meantime, Varda was absolutely determined to find a way to cripple her share of the enemy.

She was forced to halt her study of the drone when an ambrosial aroma wafted past her nose, and both her heart and her stomach wept in gratitude for the solicitude of her uncle, who had just placed a big bowl of her favorite ghrembak stew on a folding table nearby. Oh, and for her knife instructor, who was carrying seconds in a bucket. Nasty was always amazed at how much she could eat when she'd been wrestling with recalcitrant machinery. Muttering rather blurred thanks, she dug into the meal with gusto, not noticing her third visitor until she'd emptied the bowl. This was a little bit of a surprise, actually; Doc rarely left the sickbay. He was standing with Ronok and Nasty, looking over the disabled fighter and tapping long fingers against something in his pocket.

“I never liked these things,” Ronok was saying, “wasteful, is what they are. Someone had to dig up and process the metals for these, make the parts and put them together in job lots, and what does the military do but use them up and throw them away? All the work that went into them was done using slave labor, too, which just compounds the insult. It worries me, Doc. There are things that the Emperor's doing that aren't going to be forgotten or forgiven, and the payback is going to be awful.”

_My people will be slaughtered in revenge for what that miserable madman has both done and not done, and not even Voltron, not even you, will be able to convince several thousand blood-crazed peoples to stop,_ a harsh, angry voice out of her lost past made Varda shiver.

“They've got it coming,” Nasty said unsympathetically. “You're right, though, this thing gives me the creeps. Hey, Varda, have you gotten any closer to cracking it yet?”

“No,” she said grumpily. “It's fighting me, and I can't find a way in! I'll get it sooner or later, though.”

Doc turned and took the object out of his pocket, which turned out to be a handheld medical scanner. “Hmm, yes, although later might be better,” he said, aiming the thing at her torso and squinting at the readout. “You're overdoing it again, girl, and have already lost too much weight for my peace of mind. Overusing your aetheric talents has also robbed your system of those nutrients that you need most--”

Varda sprang up from her seat and made a dash for the doors, but Nasty tripped her up and Ronok caught her against his shoulder without difficulty, and Doc stepped up smartly and poured a vial of foul-tasting fluid down her throat with practiced ease. Doc smiled and continued, “--so much so that you cannot even give the crew a proper run today. They'll be terribly disappointed to miss a Varda-hunt, you know.”

It was true that a large percentage of the crew enjoyed chasing down the First Mate for fun and prizes, and they looked forward to the once-a-fortnight event with great anticipation. “They'll live,” she sighed, running her fingers through the soft fur on the back of Ronok's neck. “I've got to break that thing's shielding, though, and soon, or we're in trouble.”

Ronok hummed thoughtfully, lifting her up into his arms and sitting down at her folding table with her on his lap. “Not if it means destroying yourself, you don't. How is it different from the other sort?”

Varda groaned and grabbed for the bucket of stew, refilling her bowl and retrieving her spoon. Bad taste in her mouth from the tonic or no, her stomach still demanded more fuel. “It's like dirty ice. Very smelly, very thick dirty ice, and there's something all through it that buzzes like that food processor did when the gearing went bad, only worse. If I could just get it to quit doing that, I could get through, but I can't!” That last was said in a frustrated wail that echoed around the docking bay. “I've run into it before, I  _know_ it, I've tried to crack it and failed, and something really, really bad happened. I just can't remember what.”

“It's the sort of thing that's got that damned Galra prince lurking behind it,” Nasty said, making a crude gesture at the drone, “that's all I need to know. Why does the buzzing get in the way? I've seen you work just fine on things even when the bits are shrieking. I mean, the last time that the big clothes-dryer went off its rails--”

“It's not like that. That was just noise.” Varda sucked gravy off of her spoon and wrinkled her nose. “I can tune out noise. This is a vibration that makes all my bones and teeth shiver—that's really distracting, and whatever's doing that is embedded in the ice so I can't get it out. It's alive, too, somehow, and it hates everything that isn't Galra.”

“Aetheric, then,” Doc murmured thoughtfully. “That makes sense. It was probably a Galra witch that came up with this puzzle. It's almost a shame that their women, especially talented women, are so rare. Why couldn't you have been a girl, Ronok?”

Ronok laughed bitterly. “My own father asked me that question more than once, along with five of my uncles, several cousins, and my Matriarch as well. Not that things would have turned out much better if I had been born female. They wouldn't have accepted a kitchen witch any more than they accepted me as I am, and there is no guarantee that I would have had any real mage-talent. The last woman of my Lineage who had enough power to light a candle was my great-aunt, and all of her talent was in her voice.”

“Bossy, was she?” Nasty asked.

Ronok puffed a breath. “All Galra women are bossy. No, she was a singer. Not the best, but very good. Good enough to make a career of it before she gave up on the rest of us and joined a deep-cavern contemplative order. I still have recordings of her best performances, and one of a song-duel between her and a diva from Kedreck. It was her greatest triumph.”

Varda blinked, an idea just beginning to form in her mind. “What's a song-duel?”

“More proof that Galra are more aggressive and competitive than is good for them,” Doc said with uncharacteristic stiffness. “Your kind shouldn't do that, you know.”

Ronok shrugged. “We're predators. We can't help it.”

“What?” Nasty asked, eyes flicking curiously back and forth between them.

Ronok waved a vague hand. “To Doc's people, singing is sacred, and shouldn't be done unless you've got holy matters in mind. My people's cultures aren't so exalted, and yes, we use it as a form of combat now and then. Especially female singers, who are proud by nature.”

“Arrogant and prideful,” Varda said slowly, remembering the description from somewhere.

Ronok nodded. “Oh, very. It's genetic. Galra girls have to be, in order to keep the pack in line. A song-duel is what happens when a singer hears that another singer is as skilled or more so than she is, and decides to see if her rival can prove it. The two singers agree to meet, and careful negotiations are made as to theme, chord, tempo, whether or not instrumental accompaniment is wanted, and if so, what sort. When everything's all hammered out, they get onstage and sing at each other, each exercising their skills to the fullest. The winner is the one who can force the other into a subordinate position vocally, or if necessary, simply outlast her opponent. These duels can go on for hours, sometimes, and are always very beautiful. My great-aunt put that silly Kedrekan  _bitra_ down hard in about forty-five minutes, and she retired rich from the sales of the recordings. It was the efforts of my uncles and great-uncles to get her to share that wealth that drove her away, and I may never forgive them for that. I loved to listen to her practice when I was small.”

Varda scraped the last of the stew out of the bowl. “Would you let me listen to it? I think I'm getting the shape of an idea, but I'm not sure what it looks like yet.”

There was a faint rumble from Ronok, who was reluctant to share his private treasures at the best of times. “I suppose that I could let Great-Aunt Hantis sing you to sleep, if it'll keep you from banging your head against that drone's hull. Thank you for your help, Nasty.”

“Not a problem, Ronok,” Nasty said, scowling at the drone again. “Whatever keeps her fit enough to fight.”

“Indeed,” Doc said gravely. “Captain's orders, I'm afraid. Good night, you lot, and try to keep her from sneaking back down here to try out those ideas. Self-sacrifice is all very noble, but it's often difficult to tell apart from sheer idiocy.”

Varda yawned hugely, burped, and waved her spoon at the medic. “You're biased against heroes.”

He smiled. “Of course I am, I'm a medical professional. I'm the one who has to patch up all of the innocent bystanders left bleeding in your wake, when I'm not putting you and your lot back together. At least pirates don't bother to pretend that the mess they leave behind them is right and just.”

“I,” she declared haughtily, “am a pirate hero. I can swashbuckle and be heroic at the same time, and I never leave bleeding wrecks behind me unless they really deserve it.”

Doc snorted. “And may the gods have mercy on us all. Get her tucked into that little den of hers, Ronok. She needs rest.”

 

Galra singers, Varda thought privately to herself a little time later, sounded like really good operatic divas that had been dropped out in the wild to run with the wolves for three years. The Kedrekan vocalist had a powerful voice, great stamina, and an innate ferocity that rang through every octave. Hantis wasn't as forceful, but she had a profound, mystical quality to her singing, an excellent range, and a tonal agility that was very pleasing. They were accompanied by a very skilled drummer, a genuine drum-maestro, Ronok had told her, whose own fame had tripled from that day's work. Nestled down in her comfortable, fragrant fort, Varda closed her eyes and listened to the two proud women doing battle.

It _was_ a battle, she could hear it clearly; they sang like she and Nasty did knife practice, and it reminded her strongly of those sessions where he used the two short swords that he pulled out on special occasions. The Kedrekan diva used her voice with great skill, but her style was heavy-handed and relied more on being able to overwhelm an enemy than anything else. Hantis... Hantis _danced._ Big swords didn't work on her because she was never there when they struck. She couldn't strike a blow that would crash through her foe's defenses, but she could tangle around them and upset their balance. There was one part, right at the end, that made Varda sit bolt upright in surprise. The two voices had come together on the same refrain, meshing like gears in harmony, and Hantis had done... something. She didn't know enough about the mechanics of operatic singing to say exactly what it was, but it was as though she'd spiked her opponent's wheels somehow, forcing that other singer's tone to crack and falter.

“Right there,” Ronok murmured proudly. “That's a very rare ability, and is physically impossible for ninety-nine percent of all Galra singers to perform. Dame Linnora felt no shame in her defeat, counting it a privilege to have done battle against someone so talented, and her own reputation did not suffer for the loss. It was the rarest of all combats, Varda—a situation in which everybody won. I'm told that the applause lasted for a quarter-hour after they had left the stage.”

“It's the key,” Varda said, scrambling to untangle herself from her bedding, _“that's_ what I was doing wrong! I need to try that on the drone--”

A pale-furred hand pushed her back down into her nest. “Tomorrow,” Ronok said firmly, “tomorrow. Doc and Nasty will have my hide if you take one step outside my kitchen. Dream on it first. Plan out exactly how you are going to use my great-aunt's secret weapon on that unworthy, tone-deaf opponent so that you won't have to do it more than once. I will make you a hearty breakfast to power your own rare talents, and you will crush your enemy just as handily.”

Varda sighed, but subsided. He was right, of course. “Okay. Just play that last bit again, all right? I need to hear exactly what she did.”

Ronok chuckled, but complied. “Thousands of hopeful young music students have done the same, hoping to reproduce that wonderful trick, you know. Do you sing?”

“No,” Varda said, and paused to listen with great intensity to that one decisive moment. “Mom had hopes for me, but I sing like a goose, all nasal and honking. I gronk better than I sing.”

Ronok smiled. “I thought that you didn't gronk. You were very insistent on that subject.”

“Exactly,” Varda said, and yawned. “G'night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire fic is powered by a mix of fangirling, joyful insanity, and most importantly, comments and encouragement from our lovely readers. Your words are our rocket fuel.


	11. The Devils Are In The Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! A present to all, and yes, Spanch and I really did set up a whole conversation for the sole purpose of making a Sesame Street joke. We're not sorry, and feel no shame!  
> Have an awesome holiday, everyone, and enjoy the fic!

Chapter 11: The Devils Are In The Details

 

Varda glared at the drone. It glared back.

“All right, you filthy piece of scrap,” she hissed at it, “let's try this again.”

It buzzed spitefully at her, but she was ready for that; she'd listened to the recording several more times during breakfast and had thought very hard about it during her morning shift on the bridge. She would have to harmonize with the drone's frequency even as Hantis had done with her opponent before cracking it, and that was bound to give her a headache. On the other hand, her lack of a good singing voice was actually an asset. Taking a deep breath and concentrating hard on the fighter's tone, she hummed along, feeling her backbrain starting to spin as it did when she was reaching for control of another ship. She could almost see it, the way her voice and the drone's voice locked together, like gears, and... _there!_ There was a gap. It was tiny, and moving very fast, but if she could drive Hantis's spike into it, the whole thing would shatter like glass. Humming strongly, she watched for the perfect moment, and struck. The drone shrieked like a gearbox that someone had dropped a spanner into, and the whole thing went to pieces with an audible _crack._

Varda was sweating, dry-throated and breathless, and there was an ache right between her eyes, but by damn, the drone was clean. She took control of the badly rattled computer as easily as breathing, and her whoop of triumph was heard all over the ship. This was because one of the dockjocks had absentmindedly left the PA system on in there, but the crew smiled to hear her nonetheless, and no few wagers were settled. When she returned to the bridge a little later, she was practically skipping.

“Success, girl?” Yantilee asked mildly.

“Yeah, I got it!” Varda said happily, but waved a cautionary finger. “It's not easy, though, and I won't be able to take down that whole fleet at once. I had a hard time doing it with just that drone, and Ronok had to give me a big snack and fill my pockets with cookies.”

Yantilee nodded philosophically, noting the bulging pockets. “That you're able to do it at all is good. If you take the right ship and turn it against the rest, that'll give us extra breathing space. Lotor's following us far closer than I like.”

“Pushy jerk,” Varda grumbled, pulling a fresh-baked cookie from a pocket and munching on it.

“Very,” Yantilee said, his voice a little distant. “We need a fleet of our own.”

Varda frowned at him and settled into one of the pilot's seats. “Where are we going to get a fleet, and do we really need one?”

Haswick made a grickling noise from his own seat. “The _Quandary's_ a great ship, but not great enough to take on an armada, you know. We could probably elude him, but not forever. Galra get _everywhere,_ like gorp-roaches.”

Varda sat up straight and waved her cookie at the Captain. “All right, I'm going to have to be the Devil's advocate here. Convince me that this is a good idea.”

Yantilee eyed her with amusement. “The Devil has crumbs all down her front.”

“I'm the Cookie-Devil,” Varda replied facetiously, “and I'm still not convinced.”

Charmed, Yantilee vented a snort that nearly drowned out Haswick's stifled giggles. Both aliens had extensive mythologies in their cultures that involved devils, but neither mythos combined infernal beings with pastry. When Yantilee spoke again, he used the formal phrasing that his people's magi employed for dealing with such entities. “Very well, then. The Cookie-Devil is asked to consider the relative size and number of our enemy's forces. The _Quandary,_ as the Honorable Haswick here has pointed out, cannot fight over a hundred warships and hope to win. Therefore, we need backup.”

Varda mulled that over, and responded in kind. “The Captain might consider the saying that discretion is the better part of valor, and move us to a new quadrant.”

Eyes glittering with humor, Yantilee gestured a negative. “The Cookie-Devil is reminded that the Honorable Haswick is twice-correct. We cannot run forever, and that Prince is too damned good at following a trail. We still need help.”

“The Cookie-Devil asks the Captain where the hell he thinks he's going to find that much help—trustworthy help—that's willing to take on those odds.”

“The Captain reminds the Cookie-Devil that he has been traveling on this ship for many years, and knows every pirate captain between Elikonia and Champajo. He is even friends with some of them.”

Varda sniffed primly and ate another cookie. “The Cookie-Devil wishes to know how the Captain is going to convince all those independent, paranoid captains to join up. The Cookie-Devil would also like to know how the Captain figures that he can command and direct a fleet.”

Yantilee smiled. “The Cookie-Devil is reminded that the Captain happens to have been a sergeant in a mercenary fleet, and has extensive military experience besides.”

Varda stuck out her tongue. “The Cookie-Devil doesn't think that sergeanting is going to cut it. This is officer's work, or an admiral's.”

Yantilee drew himself up to his full height. “The Cookie-Devil,” he said loftily, “is reminded that the Captain has been both an officer and an admiral. All on the same day, yes, and was not very good at it, but the Captain has had a very great deal of time since then to study and learn.”

Varda gave him a suspicious look, ignoring Haswick's strangled snickering. “The Cookie-Devil is still waiting to hear how the aspiring Admiral will sucker all those other captains into joining.”

Yantilee turned to face the screens. “The Cookie-Devil is informed that the Captain will offer them a choice. If they join, they will receive the benefit of our aid in a tight spot, as well as the cloaking system. If they refuse, they are free to go... with the warning that Lotor is not likely to focus entirely upon capturing us. The Captain has been monitoring the PirateNet; eight such independent corsairs have already been destroyed by his forces.”

Varda hummed thoughtfully. “Just blown up?”

“No, _destroyed_. Captured, interrogated, the bounties collected, and every last hand executed in unpleasant ways,” Yantilee said darkly. “After all of that, the ships were broken down for scrap at Galra-owned foundries staffed mostly by slave labor.”

“Eek,” Varda observed. “The Cookie-Devil reminds the Captain that there is only one Cookie-Devil, and outfitting an entire fleet is going to take a while.”

Yantilee quirked his eyebrows at her. “The Captain will not be signing on members in large groups; the best pirate captains are cautious types, and prefer to observe a new thing for a while before acting upon it. We'll be doing things on a one-by-one basis. The Cookie-Devil will have all the parts that she requires, all the help that she requires, and perhaps even some apprentices, if she feels like teaching.”

Varda made a rude noise. “The Cookie-Devil is not interested in sharing her secrets with strangers.”

Yantilee smiled. “The Cookie-Devil must observe the fact that somebody is going to try to reverse-engineer the system the moment that her back is turned.”

Varda grinned evilly and dug out another cookie. “They can try. The Cookie-Devil can fix it so that it blows up in their faces if they try to take it apart, or go dead if they try to go back on the deal.”

Yantilee chuckled. “The Captain observes that the Cookie-Devil is one smart cookie.”

Haswick collapsed to the floor whooping with mirth.

Yantilee continued calmly over the noise, “The Captain also points out that Galra are not particularly well-liked in this quadrant, due to certain bad habits that they tend to exhibit around those less technologically-advanced in the military sciences than they are. There are numerous rich planets scattered around here whose populations have been enslaved; the Cookie-Devil is invited to consider the possibilities of driving the Galra away from those worlds, thus earning ourselves a good reputation and numerous friendly ports. At least two of those worlds produce mettic paste—excuse me, _peanut butter—_ as an export.”

Varda gave that some due consideration, examining her cookie. Ronok went through an awful lot of the stuff, and it was sometimes hard to get. “The Cookie-Devil is listening, although she points out that the Captain plays dirty. Incidentally, the Captain's slip is showing—that's freedom fighter talk there, pal.”

Yantilee scratched at his belly. “The Captain's slip is lacy and elegant, and that's just the way she likes it.”

Varda winced. “Ooh. Just changed again?”

Yantilee nodded, glancing down at her torso. “It's been a stressful week. The Captain, whatever gender she might be at the moment, is still carrying a mighty grudge against the Empire, and she is by no means alone. The Prince, by the very nature of his rank, would make a dandy hostage and a better bargaining chip. Freedom fighters, when the fighting is over, stand somewhat less of a chance of being rounded up and executed for the sins of the past. Governments have long memories and pardons are often hard to come by if you don't have sufficient leverage. If we do not do this, we will die. If we do this, but do it wrong, we will also die. If we do it correctly, Cookie-Devil...”

Varda nodded. “The Cookie-Devil sees the possibility of the crew going home as heroes.”

“Comfortably, contentedly, cheerfully, confidently, and a great number of other words that start with 'C'.” Yantilee mused in a wistful murmur.

“'C' is for cookie,” Varda said solemnly, the words seeming to rise up from the very foundations of her being, “that's good enough for me.”

Haswick uttered one last hoot of hilarity, tied his long body up in an improbable knot, and went limp.

Varda gave him a worried look. “I think we've just killed Haswick.”

Yantilee waved a reassuring hand. “Just overloaded his strunods, is all. He'll be fine in an hour or so. Finish your cookies, little Devil, and then we will see about locating our first colleague.”

 

That turned out to be easier than either of them had thought. The recent exploits of the _Osric's Quandary_ had not gone unnoticed, nor had the ship's new trick. Vorlenn had been directed to take them to one of Plosser's old haunts by a very roundabout path, for the crew wanted some shore leave, Ronok wanted to resupply the pantries, and Yantilee wanted to visit some old friends, all without Imperial interruptions. Varda, to her relief, was not required to follow the Captain to that meeting, still being classified as a secret weapon and all. Instead, she accompanied Ronok and Nasty to the big commissary warehouses on the southern side of town. To tell the truth, she had been curious to see where Ronok got some of the more esoteric ingredients, since Galra warships tended to stock things that suited their crews alone. Oh, there was some sort of universal pap that they fed to whatever prisoners that they might be carrying, but the stuff looked bad, tasted worse, and wasn't particularly nourishing for anybody. Deliberate, Doc had told her; if the prisoner was malnourished, it wasn't going to be up to making much trouble. Ronok preferred to stock better things, and knew just where to find them.

Their destination was a trio of large warehouses in the middle of the district which were run by a squat, barrel-shaped person who was covered in green fur, who greeted Ronok with professional courtesy, Varda with curiosity, and Nasty with frank suspicion. “I don't haggle,” he said bluntly, glaring at the Unilu. “You pick what you want and you pay for it, and that's that.”

“Calm down, Erbros,” Ronok said before Nasty could say something caustic, “I've just brought him along to help stack cans. Any temmin okk in the piles today?”

Nasty brightened up. “Aha! So, this is where you got it!”

“No, but it never hurts to ask.” Ronok replied with the smile that never failed to get on Nasty's nerves. “Well?”

Erbros snerked appreciatively. “Some. A crate of six big tins, brought in a month ago and abandoned because nobody wanted it. Very much an acquired taste if you aren't an Unilu. Don't expect any squails, though. They had a crop failure on Thulsta—big old typhoon blew through the breeding facility and took the whole compound apart. Tell Plosser to take it up with them if he gets upset, all right?”

“Plosser is no longer in a position to give you a hard time,” Nasty said primly, eyeing the racks and racks of goods stretching into the distance. “He made some bad decisions and Yantilee got tired of him.”

Erbros's fur fluffed up in surprise, which Varda secretly found charming. “What, that Elikonian? Yeah, they don't put up with stupid, or didn't, at least. I kind of miss them, really. If you're interested, the smugglers in that region have been bringing out a small but steady supply of crinian, thassla, upsusk, and pickled lorsh past the patrols. Why not give that old dragon a taste of home?”

“Captain's privilege,” Ronok sighed, “assuming that I don't have to trade someone's arm and leg for them. How are they doing over there, if you know?”

Erbros shrugged. “The best they can. Empire won't let them fly anything other than atmospheric aircraft and precious few of those, and that wretched little puppet government that the Galra set up is tap-dancing like a palmet on a hot griddle to please them. The general populace is taking things... very calmly.”

Ronok looked worried. “Oh, dear. No uprisings? No resistance?”

“One or two after Yantilee's Admiral was taken, and nothing bigger than a localized protest. No more so far.”

That was a bad sign, Varda knew. She'd been listening to Yantilee's stories for most of the time that she'd been on the _Quandary,_ and had gotten a pretty good picture of the Elikonian racial psyche as a result. Elikonians were terrifying during their short, violent rages, but a wise person learned to be _really_ apprehensive when they went quiet and thoughtful for long periods of time. Elikonians, when they did decide to take action, generally did so very thoroughly.

Nasty gulped nervously. “Next time you meet with a smuggler who's going there, you tell him from us to tell them to wait, all right? Yantilee's planning something, and she's probably going to want to bring them in on it.”

Erbros gestured concurrence, but gave him an interested look. “That have anything to do with those odd rumors swirling around the _Quandary?_ Some of it might be believable if I'm drunk, but the rest... well, have a look at the tabloids sometime.”

Ronok grinned. “Yes, actually. We've made a remarkable discovery, and in a most unpirately humor, we've decided to share it. If we are very careful and very lucky, we may be able to sort out that Prince who's been crashing around and making things difficult. Yantilee's making arrangements even now.”

Erbros's facial fur split open into a fearsome grin, showing three rows of sharklike teeth. “Now, isn't that a fine thing to hear? He did for Captains Dlensa and Bottemius Dhal just a bit ago, and they were a couple of my favorite customers. Take that vicious little proto-tyrant alive if you can, and come back here to auction him off. There are a lot of folks in this area that will want to get their hands on him. The Emperor has other sons, after all. He can spare us this one.”

The next hour or two were spent directing the stacking drones, pulling big drums, crates, and boxes off of shelves and loading them onto a trio of large float-pallets. This included that one crate of temmin okk after a certain amount of wheedling on Nasty's part, and then they headed for the freezer section. “We've a little more wiggle room in the budget this time,” Ronok said thoughtfully, “that new hydroponics section that Yantilee bought us has been feeding a lot of the herbivores and insectivores very handily. The Nantileeri in particular.”

Varda humphed and laid a possessive hand on one particular crate. “It doesn't stop them from stealing my cookies.”

Nasty laughed. “Of course not! They evolved from crumb-snatching anklebiters—literally. Their homeworld is also the homeworld of the Ghirondans, and the Nantileeri got their evolutionary start by following them around and scavenging off of their dump sites. Just their luck that the Ghirondans decided to domesticate them and breed them for brains, eh? They've spent the last five or six million years getting caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Why stop now?”

Varda giggled. “All right, I can see that. So, what are we going to get from here?”

“The usual,” Ronok replied, checking the nearby terminal for an inventory list and entering his requests. “A crate or three of ghrembak meat for the stews you like so much, a selection of freeze-dried mushrooms from Lebranor for the health of some, separated boranth egg proteins for the health of others, a few grab-bag crates of bits and pieces for the many kinds of fresh sausage, things like that. And since we can afford it this time, a side or two of hambrel. You never got to try the last one I got. That reminds me, I need to stop by a kitchenware store and look for a new black-iron skillet.”

Nasty muttered a stunningly rude comment about the habits of Gantars. “I still have no idea why Plosser bought that animal. It was way more trouble than it was worth!”

“Plosser's getting old and has lost too many heads,” Ronok explained, directing a drone into one particular freezer. “Juskorans are long-lived, but their judgment starts to slip when they get past a certain age, especially if they've been beheaded more than four times. He's lost seven since he first came aboard the _Quandary—_ eight, actually. Pormit popped his latest one off just two days ago.”

“Good,” Varda stated firmly. “I won't have him sneaking and plotting around my ship.”

Nasty grinned at her. “Thinking of trying for captain one day?”

Varda flung her arms out in a gesture of uncertainty. “I don't know. If all of those legends are right and my Lion's really a part of a giant superweapon bent on kicking Zarkon off of his throne, I don't think that I'll have time to do much pirating, much less captaining. So long as I am a part of the crew, however, Osric's my ship, and I've got a responsibility to keep him safe and free.”

Ronok smiled. “That's my girl. All right, that's the whole list, within budget, even. Let's just pay for our pelf and go see what we can find among the toast-racks.”

Erbros accepted his credit chit with no trouble and arranged to have their purchases delivered to the big freight shuttle that they'd come to port in. It was a short but pleasant amble down a side street to Ronok's favorite kitchenware dealer, although Varda noticed that Ronok was attracting some some hard looks from passersby.

“Ronok, those people--” she murmured to him.

“I know,” he murmured back. “I'm Galra, if only a dead one. They won't try anything. I'm known here, and am wearing the _Quandary's_ crest; all we have to do is steer clear of the taverns and narcotics pavilions and we'll be fine. All the same, I don't venture planetside alone. Not ever. Not at my age. You and Nasty are my bodyguards today, so don't hesitate to be fierce if you find it necessary.”

Varda slipped her hand into his, feeling the bones and tendons under the fine fur. They reached the store without any trouble, and were even able to find a replacement skillet, but Varda was in for one more shock before they returned to their shuttle. The street that Ronok usually took to get back to the port had been closed off for repairs, so they detoured two blocks east down a different road, one that went along the edges of a different sort of market entirely.

Varda stared in growing horror at the rows of cages, the busy auction blocks, and the well-dressed customers leading their purchases on leashes. “Ronok!” she hissed urgently, “That's a slave market!”

“I know,” Ronok replied with chilling indifference. “This sort of thing is quite common the universe over. Roughly two-thirds of all the sentient races out there have long traditions of buying and selling their surplus populations, but it was my lot who introduced the idea that you can do that to whole planets. Don't worry too much about those poor fellows in the cages over there; this world doesn't believe that imprisoning a felon is an effective punishment for a crime. All of those slaves are criminals, and they will work off their sentences in the old-fashioned way. They'll be freed at the end of it, possibly with new skills and certainly with an excellent incentive not to get into trouble again.”

Varda swallowed hard, watching as a Galra was hauled out of a cage, struggling frantically against his captors until one of them jabbed a rod into the middle of his back. He screamed and fell to his knees, gasping and shuddering. Varda remembered the callow young captain whom she'd scolded on her first boarding run, and felt a terrible urge to rescue that poor fellow. Ronok tugged at her hand, drawing her away.

“No heroics,” Nasty said sternly, having seen her expression. “And don't bother asking us what that guy did. Think! Remember what the Galra did to Yantilee's people, and to hundreds of others. That one's a part of it, even if he himself hasn't had a chance to do anything yet.”

“Enslaving and destroying whole races is wrong,” Ronok said hollowly, bitter lines graven deep in his face. “Smashing whole planets is worse. No few of my people, the soldiers included, are aware of that. If they were to rise up all at once, the Emperor would have no choice but to concede, and would be forced to stop doing that lest they destroy him. But they have not done that. The status quo is too convenient, too profitable, too advantageous, and they often simply do not care. This makes them complicit in the crimes committed against their neighboring races, and one day they will pay for it. I probably won't live long enough to see it happen, and I am glad of that.”

“It isn't fair,” Varda whispered, clutching at his hand.

“No, it is not,” Ronok admitted. “We are fighting it, however; you and I and Nasty and Yantilee and whatever old friends our illustrious Captain can bring into the pack. I can't predict the future, young lady, but I can tell you this: if Lotor does succeed his father upon the Throne, he will face a whole universe's worth of peoples who will want his head on a spike, along with those of all of the rest of us.”

“It's still wrong!” Varda protested. “You can't blame one person for the crimes of a whole government, and you can't blame a whole people for one individual's bad habits! Nobody should have to pay for someone else's stupid mistakes!”

“I know that!” Ronok barked, startling her into silence. “The problem is that many people, including my own, tend to think collectively, and they form prejudices because doing so is easier and cheaper than addressing the real problem. It is always easier to hate a people that you have wronged rather than to admit that you were in error, and making real reparations to those people is never pleasant. It is so tempting to relegate them to the status of prey, which not only excuses you from wrongdoing, but allows you to keep on doing it. Ye Gods, why did those idiot Carlumnians take it into their heads to assassinate Prince Rhonorath all of those thousands of years ago? No scion of Modhri's Lineage would have gotten us into this fix!”

Nasty eyed the old man narrowly. “Come on, Ronok, it's time we went back up to the _Quandary._ You get peevish if you're out of the kitchen for too long.”

Ronok made a growling noise deep in his chest, but nodded. Varda looked up worriedly at him. “Ronok? Did any of Ronorath's relatives get away?”

Ronok sighed and seemed to deflate. “Some, at least at first. All of his male relatives started fighting over the throne before his corpse was cold, and the few that weren't killed during those arguments were assassinated later on. He had four sisters, two of whom died under mysterious circumstances. The other two lived long enough to have children, but not much longer than that. Hoping for one of those legendary 'hidden prince manifesting his destiny' situations, are you?”

“Well, maybe.” Varda admitted.

“Hah. Forget it.” Ronok shook his head grimly and set off for the port at a brisk pace. “Zarkon and Haggar hunted every last one of them down and killed them thousands of years ago. If the Bloodline still exists, it's all in the descendants of distant cousins, and they're careful not to mention it. There are no more members of the Line Direct left. Haggar wanted her Lord to be free of any and all rivals, and what that hag wants, she gets.”

Varda glared back over her shoulder at the busy market. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Nasty snorted, but gave her a smile. “Who knows? Maybe you will. Tell you what—when we get back aboard ship, let's take a little time to practice knifeplay after getting the pantries restocked. Your close-combat skills still need work.”

Varda was willing to acknowledge that this might be a good idea, and lengthened her stride to keep up with the others.

She did feel better later, after not only a good stiff sparring session but a visit to the kitchen; Ronok had decided to make ghrembak stew. The problem with ghrembak meat was that it was tough—the animal it came from was mostly gristle and muscle and required a lot of tenderizing, which meant giving the meat a good whacking with a large, spiky hammer. She and Ronok had taken it in turns to ease their still-inflamed tempers, and by the time that Yantilee summoned her to the bridge, she was in a far better frame of mind.

The Captain greeted her with a nod. “Varda. How was your day?”

“It could've gone better,” Varda grumped, gazing at the view of the planet on the screens. “There's a slave market down there.”

Yantilee sighed. “You would've encountered one sooner or later. Since the city's not on fire and nobody's called to complain, I'd say that you took it fairly well.”

Varda shook her head. “Ronok and Nasty kept me from doing anything. How did your day go?”

“I must remember to give those two a raise,” Yantilee muttered under her breath. “I did very well, actually. Pirates gossip constantly, and the latest hot topic has been us. The big table down at the Bootlegger's Basement was very crowded.”

Varda cocked her a puzzled glance. “Where?”

Yantilee chuckled. “It's a pub, and the oldest establishment on the planet. By custom and tradition, it is also the place where all of the big plans are made. Since it also serves the best booze in the city, the local government spends much of its time there as well. There is a very large table in the main room, and you can always tell how important the discussion is by how many people come to sit around it.”

“And you filled it up, huh?” Varda asked.

Yantilee nodded. “I did inform the Cookie-Devil that eight captains, ships, and crews had run afoul of Lotor's fleet, and were destroyed. Four of those were very well-liked in this sector. Three were deeply respected. The last was feared by one and all, and the locals are still in shock that Death had finally scraped up the courage to take Captain Groxander to meet his gods at last. A good many are calling for revenge.”

Varda slid into her usual seat and waggled a finger. “The Cookie-Devil still says that she's the one and only of her kind. How many ships am I going to have to work on, Yantilee?”

“For now, no more than four.” Yantilee lifted a pair of hands to point at the screens. “There really aren't all that many ships large enough to make a difference with left in this quadrant. Those four there—the _Pride of Calynx,_ the _Nova_ _Maiden_ , the _Agent of Spare Change_ , and the _Mop_ will be your first customers.”

Varda blinked at a big blue warship that was quite visibly armed to the teeth. “The... the _Mop?”_ she asked weakly.

Kezz chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “A very proud old ship. _'Mop'_ is a syllable that means a lot of good things in a lot of languages, and the current captain will be happy to list them all, but the truth is that the first captain got drunk with his friends just before the naming ceremony and lost a bet. Try not to make any jokes about the name, all right? The crew has heard them all, and they're not impressed by any of them.”

“More will come,” Yantilee said distantly. “Once we've proven ourselves, more will come. Hah. We may find ourselves leading a true rebellion in the end.”

 

_**GHOST FLEET ATTACKS!!!** _ the headline screamed.  **_GREEN DEMON LION AVATAR HAS NECROMANTIC POWERS—SUMMONS SHIPS OF THE DEAD TO AID IN EVIL AIMS!!!_ **

“She's been making friends,” Coran said cheerfully, indicating the front page of the _Blagblah Enquirer._ “There are five ships in her little fleet now, although the more recent publications allege more, and they've been giving several Governors something to have ulcers about. Better still, the newsnets—y'know, the ones where the headlines have to match mostly up with reality—are starting to post similar articles. Apparently, Lotor's been chasing them around.”

“Well, we knew that,” Allura said, scanning the colorful tabloids and the more sober newsnets. “All around, unfortunately. The _Quandary_ has an enormous range for such an awkward-looking ship!”

Hunk shrugged. “That's not hard to achieve, if she's been messing around with the engines. I'd like a look at them myself.”

“Perhaps later,” Coran said, and then pointed at another exclamation-point-bedecked headline. “See here, though—she's started chasing Lotor a bit in return, whenever he gets too close. They nip out of hyper, take out a couple of his smaller ships, and vanish again. Better yet, one ship in his fleet per attack is usually given something that the _National Norgblazzer_ here calls a 'techno-zombie virus' that makes it attack its own comrades. She may have cracked Haggar's new cybersecurity program.”

“That's great!” Lance said.

“Yes, but note that she's only taking one ship per attack,” Coran cautioned. “It's probably not easy for her, and the fleet's definitely using hit-and-run tactics. There are simply not enough of them to engage in a pitched battle, although that may change. Other pirates may well join the fun if they continue to be that successful. For now, though, it's comparable to the effect that light cavalry has on heavy infantry, which means that Lotor may lose up to half of his pet fleet in short order.”

“He won't like that,” Modhri observed, gazing with worried eyes at some of the more lurid headlines. “If he loses too many, he can call in reinforcements. Big ones, if they annoy him enough to disregard his own pride. In the meantime, this will make our search much easier.”

Allura looked at him curiously. “How do you mean?”

Modhri smiled. “Flagships are equipped with all of the very latest sensory systems, which is why Lotor is able to follow the  _ Quandary _ so closely. All we have to do is follow him, and widen our search from there. The real trick will be to keep him from spotting us.”

“I know how to do that, and so does Kolanth,” Zaianne said with a sly smile. “I will be very surprised if you haven't taught your ship the same sort of trick, Lizenne.”

Lizenne laughed. “Considering my line of work? Oh, yes, the  _ Chimera _ knows how to fly silently. By all means, let us shadow the Prince. Let him do all of the hard work for a change, and we can home in on her location through the pack-bond.”

“Sounds good to me,” Keith agreed.

“Very good,” Zaianne said, beckoning to the Princess. “Allura, Coran, I need to teach you a trick.”

The two Alteans joined her on the dais, where they put their heads together in an intense discussion. Hunk stared up fondly at the tabloids on the screen and scratched his stomach reflectively. “It'll be good to have her back again,” Hunk said, “and not just 'cause we'll be able to form Voltron. Hey, do you think that they gave her a hat, or maybe a parrot? You can't pirate properly without them, you know.”

Lance and Keith pictured Pidge in the full, classic, bad-Carribean-pirate-vid getup, eyepatch, hook-hand, and all. Their minds boggled. “She's in a starship, Hunk,” Keith said patiently, “she won't need a hat. For all we know, the parrot _is_ the captain.”

Lance grunted in mild disgust. “There's a kid's vid series back home that's got a pirate parrot captain, _The Amazing Adventures of Wandering Wanda and Friends._ Some of my littler cousins were addicted to that stupid show, and wouldn't watch anything else. Guess who got stuck with babysitting duty whenever they and their moms came over to visit?”

“Oooh,” Hunk said, wincing in sympathy. “I think I saw an episode of that while sitting in a waiting room once. I couldn't decide whether to freak out or let it turn my brain into cream cheese.”

“Try watching it for five hours straight.” Lance ran his hands through his hair, his expression one of noble suffering. “Every time I hear someone say 'arrr, matey', I want to throw a chair through the nearest vidscreen.”

Keith puffed a laugh. “Almost makes me glad that I'm an only child. I wonder what sort of programs Galra kids watch?”

“They don't. They watch their sisters,” Hunk said wryly. “Remember Sarell's cubs? You had to watch Tessela all the time, especially if you wanted to keep her teeth out of your leg.”

Keith smiled. “Yeah, that's right. To tell you the truth, I kind of miss them. They got underfoot a lot and Tessela kept trying to eat the mice, but it was good to have them around.”

Lance cocked him a suspicious look. “Was that your furry purple genes talking, pal?”

“Probably,” Keith said without a trace of embarrassment, turning to look at his mother. “Mom says that I've got a lot of cousins, and probably nieces and nephews by now, although I might never get to meet any of them. I've always been alone, guys. Even before Dad died, I was pretty isolated. Getting used to having everybody around hasn't been easy.”

Hunk laid a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, we've seen that. It doesn't help that bits of the team keep wandering off and getting lost. We're getting closer to finding one of them, at least.”

They were silent for a moment, remembering Shiro, and wondering where he was and whether or not he was all right. The black Lion still wouldn't tell Allura anything about that incident, no matter how she pushed that issue.

Their thoughts were interrupted when the Princess exclaimed, “That's ingenious!”

“Yes, but it's tricky,” Zaianne cautioned her. “It only works if you maintain that distance and that angle, and even so, you have to be ready to run if they spot you. Let the _Chimera_ take the lead for once, and hide in its shadow; Hanifor science craft are specifically built not to disturb the locals. I'm rather surprised that the Castle runs as quietly as it does.”

“That was my Grandfather's idea,” Coran said, twirling his mustache. “The old man grew up listening to his grandfather's stories, and that old fellow spent his youth running naloup spice to Tholanta. Lovely stuff, naloup, just the thing to sprinkle over a bowl of custard, but it turns Tholantans green and makes them see butterflies. Nonaddictive and quite harmless, but their government didn't approve. Great-great-grandfather had good reason to stay under the radar, as it were, and Grandfather, no doubt, had similar opinions at the time. It certainly saved time and trouble, since we didn't often have to bother with checkpoints and border patrols.”

Zaianne cocked him an amused glance. “So I see. How convenient for the Royal House of Altea, to have such retainers. They hardly had to worry about scandal at all.”

Coran gave her a narrow look. “What d'you mean by that?”

“They had you and your kin ready and willing to do it for them, of course,” she replied sweetly. “That must have freed up ever so much time for nobler things, as well as saving them the trouble of hiring court jesters.”

“ _Madame!”_ Coran said over Allura's giggles.

“She only pokes you to see you jump, you know,” Allura said with a grin. “Let's try this trick out, shall we? Where is Lotor's last known location?”

Coran humphed and turned to his console, alerting the Chimera of the newest developments and checking the latest news. A few minute's study revealed that the morning edition of Vessmonal System's  _Daily Plorp_ reported sightings of the fleet just off of Nereo Seven, so off they went.

 

Varda had decided that Yantilee made good, if rather weird friends.

Captain Ketzewan was, for his kind, movie-star handsome in both body and soul. The air around him glittered when he moved; passion and nobility sang through his mellifluous voice whenever he spoke, he moved with exquisite grace and poise, and his dress and manners were perfect. The fact that he was about the size of a large housecat and looked like broccoli somehow did not detract from his swashbuckling image. He was simply a very charismatic broccoli, and every member of his crew was fiercely loyal to him.

At the other end of the scale was Captain Zorjesca, who was nearly as big as Yantilee and looked as though she should have been chasing Sigourney Weaver around a derelict space station. Despite her terrifying, insectile appearance, she was a strict vegetarian and had a passion for unusual board games. Her crewmen were polite, helpful, and none of them looked like broccoli.

Captain Horpalk was a brooding, angry character that resembled a large, fluffy patchwork quilt in intricate patterns of black, blue, and yellow, and like a quilt, he had a distressing habit of draping himself over the nearest pair of shoulders. Unlike a quilt, however, he was a two-hundred-pound sheet of constricting muscle and could quite easily crush a person to death. He had been charmed by the peculiar redundancy of a cloaking device and had been very polite to Varda while she'd been working on his ship.

Her current favorite was Captain Tchak. He was tall, bone-thin, had a pair of horns like an antelope, and looked as though he'd been plated with bronze coins. His eyes were large, green, and slightly manic, and he was a trickster. Not by intent; he was a very good, very clever captain—despite being mad as a bag of Golrazi clams, according to one of his crewmen—but things of a downright poltergeistish nature tended to happen around him when he got his blood up about something. He had a broad sense of humor, a booming, infectious laugh, and he really liked peanut-butter cookies.

Nonetheless, she was very glad when she was able to return to the  _Quandary._ Her own fellow crew might have been just as strange or stranger, but at least they were familiar and known quantities. For his part, Yantilee was turning out to be an excellent Admiral. He directed the little fleet with skill and caution, took care never to rely too heavily upon any one ship or person—something Varda truly appreciated—and took no situation at face value. So far, it seemed to be working. Lotor's fleet seemed to be the only Galra ships that had the super-tough shielding on their AI's, and all others fell before the Ghost Fleet with relative ease.

Oh, yes, the Ghost Fleet. There had been a bit of an argument over what to call their proud company. Ketzewan had wanted to label them after a noble and dramatic band of weeds from his people's history, while Horpalk had suggested a dire entity from his own people's mythology. Unfortunately, it came through the universal translator as “Plague of Moths”. Zorjesca had been willing to admit that five ships did not constitute enough of a threat to be called a Swarm, and it looked as though Ketzewan might have challenged Horpalk to a duel to decide who got the privilege of naming the fleet, except that Tchak had tossed a rather tattered hardcopy edition of the  _Blagblah Enquirer_ onto the table before them. They'd shrugged and conceded the point; no matter what they called themselves, the universe would know them as the Ghost Fleet. Personally, Varda didn't care. So long as she was able to set that all-important cloaking system into their ships without wasting time, parts, or effort on silly arguments, it was all good. The Fates knew that they were getting good use out of it. Lotor and his goons had learned not to crowd them quite so closely, and Yantilee's idea of having all five ships splitting up after an attack and meeting again later at a prearranged point was definitely giving them some breathing room. That was good, because Yantilee wanted to establish their reputation properly—the Captain wanted to free a planet.

Not Elikonia, which surprised Varda a little, although she could see Yantilee's reasoning. Elikonia was too far from their usual ports and smuggler's havens, and was too heavily-guarded. He also did not want to make his homeworld a target for Imperial reprisals; not yet, anyway. For now, his intended target was the world of Walmanech, whose inhabitants groaned under the thumb of the oppressors as their world was ruthlessly stripped of its resources. One of those resources happened to be mettic paste, which had been increasingly difficult to obtain of late. “I can't wait to see their faces when they offer us a reward for their liberation,” Ronok had told her with a smile. “They'll be expecting us to want an expensive gift, and all we'll be asking for is a condiment. Yantilee will pay good money and barter for the rest.”

“Yantilee is very smart!” Dwesk declared, and Varda couldn't help but agree.

She'd heard tales from the crew about what happened to enslaved peoples, and how badly they were treated; by refusing to exploit them in that crucial moment of weakness right after being freed, the Captain would be forming the foundations of a proper long-standing alliance. And, if everything went well, it would serve as a springboard for future efforts to free Elikonia. Doc had told her once that the Elikonian Collective had gained its subject peoples by offering to protect them from more aggressive neighbors in much the same way, and their alliances had been established through firm economic ties. It had taken some considerable bribery and effort for the Imperials to separate them from Yantilee's people, and some of them were still paying dearly for that betrayal. The Empire did not always keep its promises to its subject peoples, particularly not when the Empire stood to profit from going back on the deal. Varda suspected that the Captain would have a few very pointed things to say to those wayward peoples about promises and why you kept them... after he'd dealt with the puppet government in place on his own homeworld. Elikonians did not ever forget, and Yantilee was no exception.

In the meantime, Varda was doing one of her favorite jobs, which was assembling a new cloaking-system kit for another ship. Yantilee had received a message recently from the captain of the aptly-named  _Night Terror,_ who had been haunting this sector for something like five hundred years, and who had expressed an interest in taking the fight to the enemy. The five fleet captains had been delighted and even awed by that—Captain Shussshorim was the only known Hoshinthra Warleader to have survived the destruction of their homeworld, and was so wily and secretive that many argued that she was a myth invented to scare cadets. And fearsome she was—she hated Galra with a burning passion that was mitigated only by her cold loathing for their simpering allies. There were tales about what she did to captured soldiers that Varda could only hope were exaggerated.

Varda had just finished packing the last crate when Doc's voice rang over the PA system.  _“First Mate Varda, kindly put down your toys and report to the sick bay for your checkup. All other hands, please be aware that if she runs again, the prize for her capture and delivery will be a portable entertainment set, brand-new in the box. Thank you.”_

Varda growled one of Kezz's dirtier swearwords, but she grinned in anticipation. The whole crew loved those “Varda Hunts”, and to be honest, so did she. It was a great way to make sure that everyone got their exercise, and this time, she would be able to test out a side project that she'd been working on. “Ready, Osric?” she murmured into the still air of the junkroom.

“ _Any time,”_ Osric replied in his customary ghostly whisper.

Doc did his usual humph-and-grumble routine as he scanned her, chided her about being just this side of underweight again, and reached for the customary vial of foul-tasting pink liquid. Varda, as usual, took off at top speed. Despite Doc's promised alert, the main hall remained clear for half of its length—that had been a tacit agreement among the crew, since it was more fun to chase her once she'd gotten up to speed. She didn't see anyone until Varis loomed out of a side storage closet with a fearsome smile on his narrow face; with practiced ease, Varda ducked under his grab, dove and rolled between his legs, and darted off down a side passage without losing much speed. Varis was only the first, of course, and soon she had whole teams of crewmen hot on her heels. This time, however, that was precisely what she wanted.

“Osric!” she shouted breathlessly, “Numbers seventeen, three, and twenty-two!”

Surprised yells behind her, along with sliding noises, thuds, and a deep-toned twang told her that her experiment had been a success. Whooping with evil glee, she turned a corner, sprang nimbly over the heads of three waiting Nantileeri, and told Osric to activate number twenty-three. She would be expected to report upon how well that one worked, since Nasty had helped her install it. He'd insisted, as a matter of fact, and had scolded her for trying to leave him out of the fun again. She didn't mind; the clever Unilu had grown up playing this sort of prank on his relatives, which was probably one of the reasons why he'd been voted off of the planet.

Three fluting squawks from behind told her that the trap had worked very well. Nasty would be pleased. From there, she ducked into one of her secret passages, came out five minutes later on the engineering deck, and had only a second or two to get her bearings before a large sack came down over her head, swallowing her up entirely. She heard the cackle of one of the very few members of the crew that she had yet to outwit through the heavy cloth, and felt herself being slung over a broad shoulder.

“Got you, silly girl!” Maozuh chortled, “And 'tis no good to try to cut your way out of that sack—I've binders on me, and will shackle you if I must.”

That wasn't an idle threat. Varda had seen whole work crews linked into chain-gangs because they hadn't been doing their jobs well enough to suit the Quartermaster. Few crossed her more than once, that was for sure. Varda reminded herself to ask Nasty about ways to wiggle out of non-electronic restraints later and let Maozuh carry her back to the sick bay, where she was dumped out of the sack and force-fed her dose of vitamin booster. Maozuh claimed her prize and disappeared back into the depths of Engineering, leaving Varda and Doc alone in the cluttered infirmary.

“A good run,” he congratulated her, “and Maozuh's been wanting a new vidset. Well-chosen, there. You'll be wanting to get up to the bridge soon. Yantilee asked me to send you up when you were done playing.”

“Oh? Why?” Varda asked.

Doc shrugged and waved a hand at the door. “He didn't say, but judging by his tone, I suggest that you not dawdle.”

Varda was a little surprised by that. Yantilee didn't often bother with being cryptic, so she trotted to the bridge without stopping. Whatever he wanted, it wasn't an emergency, for nothing other than stars were visible in the forward screens. The rest of the fleet had been arrayed behind them along vectors that would serve them best if Lotor's fleet interrupted them again, and... no, there was something new out there. A ship, quite a large one, standing by at a careful distance away and angled so that the light from the local sun revealed little or nothing about it. It was a wonderful trick, almost as good as the cloaking device at that distance, and Varda knew that the other captains would be studying it very closely. Yantilee was speaking quietly with an image on one of the tertiary screens, presumably the captain, although it was difficult to tell. Yantilee glanced around and beckoned her over.

“Varda, come and greet the Talssenemai, Captain Shussshorim,” Yantilee said, adding in a murmured aside, “'Talssenemai' is a term of respect. Don't speak until spoken to, and don't call her by name unless she gives you permission.”

Varda stepped forward curiously, aware that she was about to meet a legend. The image, when Yantilee enlarged it enough so that the person in it could be seen clearly, was oddly indistinct until Varda realized that the  _Night Terror's_ captain had been swathed in layer upon layer of loose, diaphanous, pearl-gray veils that curled and rippled like smoke in the breeze from the ventilation system. Varda had the impression of something large, bony, multi-limbed, and possibly long-necked, with a long narrow head. There were pale greenish glows here and there under the veils that could have been anything; other than that, the only clear detail, and indeed, the only part of the strange alien that hadn't been draped in translucent silk was a quartet of what might have been sensory organs. These grew out of the skull like moth antennae, huge and feathery and metallic black, and they turned unnervingly to focus on Varda. The overall sense of the  _Night Terror's_ captain was that of some infernal being that had learned not to terrify its prey to death all at once. They stared at each other in silence for a few moments (could antennae stare?) before the Talssenemai spoke.

“ _That,”_ Captain Shussshorim said in an echoing whisper, _“is a Paladin. It has three auras and two shadows.”_

Yantilee cocked an interested look at Varda, who had been surprised by that statement and was trying to count her shadows without being rude. “Is this a bad thing?”

“ _It is a thing worthy of meditating upon.”_ The strange alien leaned closer toward the screen, antennae flaring out to their fullest extent. _“I perceive that it has been a dragon, and that is a rare privilege. I perceive that it is a Lion, and that is rarer still. I perceive that it is young yet, and small, but great of heart and mind. I perceive of a pair of simple shadows, as yet unsullied by the Great Sorrows. I perceive that something has hunted it, and left wounds; there are hooks still embedded, and yet it remains free. Hah. I know the scent of that hunter. For fear of our own Mystics, that one tried to destroy my people. Kill it if you can, spawnling, should you get the chance, and the spirits of a thousand departed peoples will exalt you forever.”_

Varda stared at Shussshorim. “You know about the dream monster—Haggar? That she's been hunting me?”

“ _Bold spawnling,”_ the Hoshinthra murmured, _“I do. The marks left by that perversion do not fade quickly. That you fight it even now is good; every free breath you take is a triumph, and you are already working one or two of those hooks loose. Hah. I perceive also that you have learned things from a different witch.”_

“Lizenne?” Varda asked, the name tasting at once familiar and unfamiliar on her tongue.

Shussshorim settled back in her seat, antennae flicking. _“Of all of that filthy people, I might forgive that one, if only because it serves the Elders. Have you a fondness for it?”_

“I... I think so,” Varda said slowly, struggling to wring sense from the fragments of memory that she'd managed to regain. “Some Galra are good people. I'm sorry, Talssenemai, I can't hate a whole race just because some of them are bad.”

Shussshorim emitted a peculiar whistling noise, which Varda thought might have been laughter. _“I cannot remember ever having been so generous. It is possible that I never was. I was not designed to be so, spawnling, for I am a Warleader, and we are bred and created for one purpose only. You will not like my ship, I fear.”_

Varda remembered some of the stories she'd heard, and could not quite suppress a shudder. “You're joining us, Talssenemai?”

“ _The Elikonian has promised me the chance to add the Crown Prince's pelt to my collection,”_ Shussshorim hissed, _“For that alone, I will follow. Your gift is a pleasant bonus. You will be permitted aboard my ship, along with whatever assistants you care to bring with you to expedite that installation. You and your team will be required to cleanse yourselves thoroughly before entering; my people have very strong senses of smell, and while you will not see my crew, they will perceive you instantly. They are not designed to react calmly to mixed signals. You have been fighting Imperials, and boarding their ships. Should any of you come in smelling of live Galra...”_

Varda swallowed hard. She was getting the feeling that Shussshorim wasn't conventionally sane anymore and probably hadn't been for a long while. That little mention of a collection of pelts was a very bad sign. Still and all, if Yantilee thought that adding this bizarre person to the fleet was a good idea, then it probably was. “I understand, Talssenemai. I have the whole kit ready to go, if you've got an independent power source ready for it. The _Quandary's_ system is powered by a salvaged core from a freight shuttle.”

Shussshorim clicked. _“I have a power core torn intact from a Ghamparva long-range scout ship. This will suffice?”_

Varda had a sneaking suspicion that the core was the only thing that had been torn intact from the Ghamparva ship. “That should do nicely, Talssenemai.”

Shussshorim made a satisfied sound. _“Enemy ship's ghost to be slave to ours. It is good. When you and yours are ready, spawnling, you will tell the Elikonian, who will tell me. We will send a transport to carry you in, and will return you whole and well when you are done to our satisfaction. Until then, prepare well, and let no detail escape your perceptions.”_

The screen went blank at that point, and Varda wasn't the only one who sagged in relief. All of Luddi's feathers had puffed up in alarm, and he seemed to deflate as they smoothed out again. Kezz let out an explosive breath, and even Yantilee drooped a bit. There were other grumbles and mutters as well, and Varda noticed for the first time that the other four captains had been listening in on a quartet of tertiary screens.

“By The First Florets Of Floranimus,” Ketzewan said in ominous tones, his own florets browning a little in distress, “What A Dire Creature To Have Joined Our Merry Crew! Thinkest Thou, Noble Admiral, That We May Keep Company With Such A One Without Sullying Our Own Honor?”

“She is a brilliant fighter, and a legend, no less,” Horpalk said grimly, for all that he was looking a little faded. “Others will flock to our banner, once they hear that the Talssenemai herself has come out of her haunts to do battle.”

Tchak vented a long hiss; his scales were standing up, making him look like a humanoid pinecone. “True, but she's not going to follow orders easily, and won't like leaving parts of Lotor's fleet alive behind her. How are we going to handle that demon, Yantilee?”

Yantilee drew himself up to his full height and gazed reflectively at the barely-visible ship in the screens. “By letting her handle herself. She's older than the _Quandary_ is and has never suffered a severe defeat. I'll give her a few guidelines to work by, but I will not even consider trying to command someone of that level of skill.”

“Is she really more than four hundred years old?” Varda asked. “And what did she mean by 'created'?”

Zorjesca thrummed uneasily. “Hoshinthra don't die of old age, and they have practiced intensive genetic engineering upon themselves and every other life form in their end of space for longer than anyone can conveniently calculate. The Empire may have destroyed their homeworld, but they never found all of the colonies. They stay concealed for now, but perhaps later, when the Empire has been weakened, they may reemerge.”

“You Seem Most Knowledgeable Of That Semi-Mythical People, Zorjesca,” Ketzewan proclaimed suspiciously.

Zorjesca rattled her anterior plating in her people's version of a shudder. “I should be. The Hoshinthra invented my people, developing us out of a common insect. Originally as gardeners, and later as weapons when one of their neighbors started to get pushy. We were later retired to a planet specifically terraformed to our needs as a reward for faithful service. She may be a demon to you, but I've just met my maker. We are not the only race to acknowledge them as creators.”

Yantilee sighed and nodded at Varda. “You said that you had a kit ready. Are you willing to gather up your team and install it today?”

Varda nodded grimly. “I'll have to do it sooner or later. Let me get myself and the crew together and cleaned up, and we'll get right on it. You didn't tell her about Ronok, right?”

“Not a word. She'd tear the _Quandary_ apart to get at him, and he knows it.” Yantilee's tail-tip tapped worriedly on the decking. “He ran for cover the moment her ship warped in, as a matter of fact, and may well be hiding in one of the deeper boltholes. Tell the Nantileeri to stay away from him and the kitchens until you're done, and keep them from bringing snacks. The Hoshinthra will know what prepared those.”

“Right,” Varda said uneasily, staring up at the screens. “I just want to know how she could sense all of that stuff about me. None of the _Quandary's_ instruments can see all of that!”

“It's said that a Warleader's senses are her ship's senses, and then some,” Zorjesca told her gravely. “No one has ever been able to find out just how Hoshinthra sensory technology works, or how broad a range of things it can detect, or where the dividing line between captain and craft lies. Be on your guard, young lady, and do not irritate them in any way. The Hoshinthra guard their secrets with great vigor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read something you like? Have questions about our sanity? Just want to scream like a crazed fangirl? Drop us a line! Comments would make the best present. <3


	12. Ghost Ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday insanity is (mostly) over and we return with a new chapter! Woo!

Chapter 12: Ghost Ship

 

Varda wasn't taking any chances. First, she and her crowd of Nantileeri assistants decontaminated themselves, and then their work suits. Then they put on those garments and decontaminated again. Then they ran decontam procedures on the loading drone, the float-pallet, and the crates. Then she had the Nantileeri turn out their pockets, confiscated a lot of stolen snacks, scolded them soundly, and made everybody decontaminate a third time. They then waited for a little time in the docking bay until the Hoshinthra transport pod slid soundlessly in through the doors. It was nothing more than a sleek, oval shell, pearl-gray and featureless, and it was totally empty. There was no pilot, no controls, no furniture, and no apparent power or motive source. The only thing it did have was light of a sort, which was dim and gray, like moonlight on a foggy night.

“Creepy,” Holl observed, and the others couldn't help but agree.

It was a very smooth ride, though, and fast, and it brought them to the _Night Terror_ with all dispatch. They were met in the ship's vestibule by a small drone that was another smooth, featureless ovoid, although this one had a voice. _“Your needs, Visitors?”_ it chirruped tinnily.

“A map,” Varda said, thinking that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to try speaking directly to the ship's AI, assuming that there was one, “and directions to the power source for the cloaking system.”

“ _This unit will provide guidance. You will not leave the designated areas. This unit will warn you if you approach a restricted area. Sanitary stations, if necessary, will be made available to you.”_

“Um, thank you,” Varda replied.

“ _You will follow this unit to the power source.”_

The drone began to move away at a brisk walking pace, and Varda and her team had to scramble to keep up, pulling the hover-pallet along as quickly as they could manage it. It was cold in the ship, she noticed, and breezy, and dim; the grayish, dimmish light lending itself to indistinct shadows that seemed to move about on their own with nothing to cast them. It smelled odd, too; a little dusty, a little musty, and slightly sharp, but like nothing that she could easily define. At the end of the hall there was an enormous round door, and Varda and the others paused before this to harden their nerve; the stories past this point got extremely unpleasant, and Shussshorim herself had said that they would not like what lay beyond.

“Hold onto your lunches, guys, this could be bad,” she murmured to the Nantileeri.

“Varda wouldn't let us bring lunch,” Dwesk sniffed. “Varda is going to owe us many cookies.”

“Let's just hope that we'll be in any state to eat them,” Varda replied grimly.

The door irised open. They followed the drone through it and into a much larger hall, and Varda thought for one frozen moment that she might never have any appetite again. The walls were purple; not because someone had painted them that color, but because someone had lined it with Galra skins. Whole ones, and there were large alcoves here and there where they'd been laid out on the floor as rugs as well. There were thousands of them, hairy, leathery, and scaly alike, and from every variety of Galra there was, each one with a hole in the nape of the neck. Varda swallowed hard. That probably meant that the spine had been severed there—not necessarily fatal, but certainly a paralyzing wound, and something in the back of her mind suggested that the victims might not have been dead before they had been skinned. Her stomach clenched when she saw the pale, frost-lavender hide of a Simadhi, and the thought of Ronok in the clutches of these monsters made her want to scream. Above each pelt, she noticed, there was a small silvery plaque etched with strings of rather unpleasant-looking symbols, and larger plaques were mounted here and there along the walls. Worst of all, stuffed and mounted specimens stood in full uniform inside crystal tubes, the yellow glass eyes seeming to follow the group as they passed by. In one of the tubes, the Galra's skull was on display at the specimen's feet, and a particularly large plaque had been affixed to the top of the tube. Since the uniform was quite different from any of the others they'd seen, Dwesk paused to stare at the victim for a moment, and then whimpered. “You can read Hoshinthran?” Varda asked quietly.

“Nope,” Dwesk squeaked, “but that is Ghamparva. No one takes on Ghamparva!”

Varda squinted warily at the preserved Galra. He seemed weirdly familiar somehow, in a way that she couldn't define. “He looks important. I wonder what that plaque says?”

“ _A translation is desired?”_ the drone chirruped, making the Nantileeri flinch.

“If it's okay,” Varda replied.

“ _'Sodorok of the Ghurap'Han Lineage, Captain of the Ghamparva ship_ Emperor's Honor _,'”_ the drone began, and there was just a hint of savage pleasure in the tinny voice. _“'Taken in the Fourth Sssholim of the Twelfth Inash, the Day of Ust in the Year of the Ompeshku. He had received orders to hunt and destroy the hidden populations of the blasted homeworld, one of many such captains set to this duty. He found the_ Night Terror _instead. He did not flee at the sight of us, and fought with foolish bravery; to mock this folly, three times was he given the chance to disengage and flee. These he refused. When taken, every crewman fought to the death or suicided rather than to be captured; this specimen was taken alive, and refused to cry out even when skinned. The flesh was deemed worthy of consumption, and the skull was retained. Let his strength be our strength, and let his ghost serve ours well.'”_

“ _Creeeeepy!”_ the Nantileeri chorused.

Varda's stomach churned. She had no love for the Ghamparva, but there were things that shouldn't happen to anybody. The corpse stood there in its case, yellow eyes seeming to gaze beseechingly at her, and her imagination kept supplying images of him coming alive suddenly, banging on the glass and begging her for release. She shuddered. “Let's keep going,” she said to the frightened huddle of her companions. “We'll get the job done, and done really, really well, so that we won't ever have to come back to fix it.”

The drone did not comment, but led them down interminable, pelt-and-trophy-lined halls until they reached a large room that was mercifully free of the gruesome decorations. It was also bare of anything else, and it felt like being inside a huge aluminum can. In the center of the floor, locked into a frame that looked far too much like a giant set of restraints was the power core of a medium-sized ship, pulsing with pale purple light like a living heart. Varda could feel the taint of it trying to reach the  _Night Terror's_ systems and failing; something about the frame defeated its efforts, and she was able to blow it clean without difficulty. The purple lights flickered and turned pale blue, which was no better from a lighting standpoint in the dim, cold air, casting a ghostly radiance over the pale walls. Varda checked over the ports and connectors and found them intact, although there were marks on the machine itself that made her stop and stare. Graven into the tough metal were sets of long scratches, six in a set, some nearly a quarter of an inch deep. Four ran parallel to each other in each set, flanked by another on each side that angled in toward the bottom. Those suggested large, strong, sharp claws, probably more than one set per individual Hoshinthra, and that the Hoshinthras themselves were very large and strong. The marks could have come from a loading drone, she supposed, but somehow doubted it.

“All right,” Varda said, her voice echoing thinly in the silent air, “let's get to work. Um... drone, I'll need to see the service duct grid so that we can get the system properly set up.”

The drone floated closer, eerily silent on its antigravs.  _“You will display the system as applied to this craft to this unit.”_

Varda blinked, but pulled out a data screen. “They're custom-tailored to each ship. See, the whole thing works by bending light so that what it's bent around is invisible, and the jammers interspersed with the light-benders along each trunk make it invisible to electronic sensors as well. These are strung all over the underside of the hull plating so that every part of the ship is covered by the field for a short length of time. This is a big power core, a lot bigger than what the _Quandary's_ system has. You may get as much as two minutes' worth of invisibility.”

The featureless gray egg was silent for a moment, presumably studying the screen. _“Acknowledged,”_ it said. _“This unit will show you the appropriate ducts where and when it becomes necessary. You will not deviate from the course shown.”_

The drone's voice was emotionless; nonetheless, they all heard the warning in the even tone. “Not a problem. Stand by.”

There was a fair amount of work to do before they would need those ducts, so they buckled down to it with rather more intensity than usual. Ordinarily, the Nantileeri would chatter, make bad jokes, or sing silly songs as they worked, but something about this featureless can of a room discouraged that, and they worked in nervous quietude. The silence was oppressive, and worse, it wasn't really silent. The ventilation systems that kept up the steady, frigid breeze made soft hushing sounds, and there were faint, echoing, hissing whispers threaded through it that sounded almost like speech. Huge, dim, angular shadows moved over the walls and ceiling that were not cast by the visitors, or indeed, by anything at all. There were soft knocking sounds in the walls and ceiling, footsteps on the decking that did not come from the Nantileeri or from Varda, and there was an intense feeling of being _watched,_ avidly, by something or somethings that were not there but were very interested in them all the same. Varda's mind kept drifting back to the ghost stories that the _Quandary's_ crew liked to tell each other sometimes, and it was all too easy to believe that the ship was haunted. All those pelts, all those stuffed and mounted Galra... surely there had to be something inhabiting this seemingly deserted ship that was not natural. Once, Varda reached out to pick up a tool and encountered instead something that her eyes could not see; it felt very solid, as hard as bone, and when it moved away there was a faint shimmer in the air that made the Nantileeri jump and twitter a chorus of _“creeeepy!”_

Varda swallowed hard again and checked the connections one more time because she seriously did not want to have to make repairs later. Finally, she sat back on her heels and said, “We're ready to start laying the cables now. How do we... oh.”

The Nantileeri squawked and leaped six feet straight up into the air as sections of decking, which had looked seamless before, began to slide back to show hidden tunnels, quite large enough for a small Human and a pack of turkey-sized Nantileeri to work in. Rather larger than some of the ducts in the other ships she'd worked on, but those had been much more inviting than these shadow-filled trenches. Thin lines of that ghost-gray light appeared within, and everyone flinched when the drone chittered, _“You will work in the lit sections. You will not explore the darkened sections. The correct schematic for the network has been transmitted to your data screen. Some sections will not be fully accessible from this point and will require a shift in location.”_

Varda checked her screen and saw an outline of the ship, threaded with the cloaking system; a blue dot showed their current location. Dwesk looked over her shoulder at the screen. “We being watched?”

“No doubt about it,” Varda replied. “Whoever came up with this schematic knows what they're doing, though. I couldn't have done better. Have we got all the fasteners we need?”

“Got lots,” Dwesk said, glancing nervously at the walls. “Lots and lots. Maozuh will be annoyed at Ordi again, but she won't yell too loud. Creepy people might hear.”

They worked quickly, stringing the cables through the ducts and securing them down at precise intervals until they came to places where the ducts had been barred off. There was enough room to feed the cables through, although even the slimmest and smallest of the Nantileeri couldn't fit through those openings, and Varda couldn't see the purpose of those grids at all; not until Lon came scrambling out of one duct with wide and frightened eyes and reported that there were bloody handprints at the end of his. Not recent, but present all the same. _“Creeeepy!”_ the Nantileeri wailed, and Varda agreed wholeheartedly.

The drone led them back out into the halls again when they had gone as far as they could, the decking sliding back into place as seamlessly as before, and once again they were forced to observe the grisly trophies all around them. They weren't all Galra in the next section of the ship, interestingly enough. Here and there among the various shades of purple were splashes of other colors—red, green, blue, and white; spotted, dotted, striped, or monochrome; scaled, feathered, quilled, hairy, or all of the above. A few of those had been displayed in tubes as well—bounty hunters who had made one last very bad decision, aliens who had allied themselves with the Galra rather than opposing them, rival pirates that hadn't known when to run, and rich and foolish daredevils that hadn't been able to understand that sometimes the prey was more dangerous than the hunter. Holl squeaked at one point, indicating a particular unfortunate in one of the tubes, easily identifiable by the tattoos covering more than eighty percent of his body. Apparently, that one had been Lobursk op'Uppari, a bounty hunter so successful and so widely feared that an entire Sector's entire criminal population would go to ground if they heard he was coming, or leave the sector entirely. “He not been seen for two years,” Holl said in a thin little voice. “Went looking for Tontego the Mad, vanished, poof! No one ever finds out why. Know why now!”

And so would the rest of the universe, once they got back to the _Quandary._ Nantileeri gossiped all the time. Varda wondered if Shussshorim had led them past that trophy deliberately as a way of discouraging other ambitious fools. She found herself staring at another tube, whose occupant had been Galra, and quite young. Varda couldn't help but think of Tamzet, that poor silly Acting-Captain on the training ship they'd raided, and hurried onward.

Time seemed to crawl on this monstrous ship, for all that Varda and her team worked as quickly as they could without making mistakes, testing each join and emitter with painstaking care. The hideous details of the Captain's collection began to blur together in Varda's mind, and she felt numb and cold inside and out. This was good, because it kept her from running screaming back down to the pod bay, and she didn't think that Shussshorim would approve. Getting and maintaining the Hoshinthra's approval became more and more important with every pelt and tube they passed. The captain had said that they would be delivered back home safe and well, but they had only her word for it. Varda wasn't feeling well at all, and doubted that she would ever again. Finally, _finally,_ though, the last connection was made, the last emitter had been tested and found good, the last cable had been firmly and neatly affixed to the chilly plating.

“That's done,” Varda said through dry lips, “we're finished. You can test the system now.”

“ _Acknowledged,”_ the drone replied. _“Scanning. System compatibility 100%. No anomalies found. Testing...”_ There was a long and unpleasant pause; the feeling of being watched was almost unbearable. _“Test successful. Period of invisibility is a satisfactory three point two_ dosha. _This unit will now guide you back to the transport pod.”_

There was a breathless cheer from Varda and the Nantileeri, who lost no time in throwing the leftover parts back into the crates and putting away their tools. Despite their weariness, they hurried after the floating drone with all eagerness, focusing on the pearl-gray egg to keep their eyes from lingering on the Captain's collection. The ship would have one more shock for them before they left, however; one of the crew was waiting for them by the round door that led into the pod bays. It was huge, and its rangy build and flowing draperies made it seem even larger than it was. Varda and her team scrambled to a halt and stared at the apparition, not daring to come any closer. It was about the size of a full-grown bull moose, and had four legs with cloven hooves that were actually more like paws in design, although something about the way that the draperies lay suggested that there were a good many more limbs folded up underneath. The neck was as long and supple as a snake's, an equally long and supple tail rippled behind, and greenish lights glowed eerily at intervals beneath the silks. The head, when lowered to Varda's level, gave her the impression of a horse's skull, although it was clear that it had no eyes. The antennae were in constant, glittering motion, turning this way and that, and what senses those contained probably had no names in her language.

“T... Talssenemai?” Varda squeaked.

“ _No,”_ the Hoshinthra said in an echoing whisper that was an octave or so deeper than Shussshorim's had been. _“The Talssenemai speaks through this person. The Warleader is pleased with your gift, brave spawnling. You will inform the Elikonian that she goes to test it properly.”_

Varda gulped and winced; she'd been doing that a lot lately, and her throat was sore. “She's going to go hunting Galra?”

“ _Yes. The Talssenemai will be generous; she will surprise one ship only. If that ship runs, she will let it go. If the ship tries to fight, she will take it. Be grateful for this generosity; she does not grant such openings often. She will come back once that hunt is done. She wishes very much to add the Galra Prince to these halls.”_

“Oh.” Varda said, feeling briefly sorry for the Prince if these creatures ever got their... um... _manipulatory appendages_ on him. “Thank you.”

“ _The Talssenemai thanks you also. The system feels good, like an extra veil.”_

Varda blinked. “Does it?”

“ _The Talssenemai is the ship. It does. Now go.”_

Varda and her team obeyed that command instantly. It was an enormous relief to feel the pod launch, although the Nantileeri waited until their transport was well away from the ship before chorusing,  _“Creeeeeepy!”_

They pushed the hover-pallet out in a hurry the moment that the pod's hatch opened and piled out in a quivering heap into the docking bay, the pod closing up and sliding back out into space without a sound the moment that they were out. Never before had the _Quandary's_ docking bay seemed so wonderfully familiar, so friendly and inviting! How well-lit it was, how warm, and how wonderful it was that there wasn't anything more horrible than the duty roster tacked to the walls! Varda was perfectly willing to lie there covered with twittering Nantileeri and soak it all in, and didn't even notice that they had company until Yantilee spoke. “That bad, eh?”

Varda groaned, stood up and dusted herself off, then turned to face her Captain. “The Cookie-Devil would like to inform the Captain that she has now seen real Devils and is seriously freaked out. Also, the Talssenemai wants the Cookie-Devil to tell the Elikonian that she's going to run off and test the cloaking system out by hunting more pelts. That's really upsetting, by the way. She says that she'll be back once she's done. That might take a while, if she can find a ship too stupid to run from her.”

Yantilee grimaced. “She just left, and to tell the Cookie-Devil the truth, the Elikonian is not sorry to see her go. Will she really let a victim get away?”

“That's what she said,” Varda replied grimly, “she said that she was being generous. As a favor to me, I think. Gah. Are all Hoshinthra that bad?”

Yantilee's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I have no idea. The Warleaders, perhaps. I'm not the person to ask. She likes you, I know that much.”

Varda stared at the Captain. _“Likes_ me?”

Yantilee nodded. “Oh, yes. She grants you favors and has returned all of you to us unharmed. If she didn't like you, none of you would have come back, alive or otherwise.”

There were distressed squeaks from the Nantileeri, and Varda buried her face in her hands. “Great. I want lunch. No, I don't, my stomach's still upset. I want to get warm. And then I want to hit something very hard. I don't want to sleep because I'm going to have some seriously bad dreams.”

Yantilee hummed deep and cautioning in his barrel chest. “Clean up first. If you go to the kitchens now, you'll cause a panic.”

“Huh?” Varda blinked, then pulled the collar of her work suit out and sniffed. Yantilee was right. Quite aside from her own stress sweat, there was a definite tang of Hoshinthra on her. “Oh. Ick.”

“Yes,” Yantilee agreed. “You reek of haunted ship, monster, and old death, and so do your team. Anyone with a strong sense of smell is going to be very upset by that, and that includes Ronok.”

Varda vented another groan. “Oh, poor Ronok! I need a shower. No, I don't, I need a bath. Where am I going to find a bath... wait, I've _got_ a bath. There's that big tub in the First Mate's quarters. We can all fit in that. Care to join me, guys?”

“A bath!” Dwesk squawked loudly, and the others joined in with gusto. “A bath! With soap!” “Lots of soap!” “Much bubbles!” “Very warm!” “With scrubby brushes!” “And tinka oil for smell-nice!”

“Let's go!” Varda said, and led her chattering team away.

They spent a luxurious couple of hours in the enormous tub, soaking and scrubbing and splashing each other vigorously, although Varda climbed out before she would let them add the tinka oil. It did smell nice and it added an attractive gloss to the Nantileeri's scales, but it wasn't good for Varda's soft, scaleless hide. Instead, she donned her shorts and a comfortable shirt and headed down to pumping station 6, where she worked out some of her feelings on the practice dummies there. Only then, tired and hungry and feeling a little more like herself, she went to get something to eat.

Ronok had come out of hiding, she discovered when she slipped into the kitchen through the secret shortcut in the pantries, and her team was already there, staring with eager eyes at the pan of gampra beetles that he was frying for them. Her nose detected better things, such as the huge pot of impri chowder bubbling on a nearby stovetop, and the air held a definite hint of peanut-butter cookies. Her belly made a loud demand, and Ronok glanced up at the sound of it. He looked strained and had been worrying, but the smile he gave her was as fond and welcoming as ever.

“You've had quite an adventure,” he said, dumping out the fried beetles onto a platter and laying out more in the pan. “Get yourself a bowl of that chowder, love, cookies'll be done in a few minutes.”

She did intend to do that, but not immediately. He looked so good, whole and alive and, above all, _not_ a pelt on a wall in a nightmare ship that she came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tight. He patted her arms comfortingly. “Always when I'm frying. Sooner or later, I'm going to wind up giving you a burn, and Doc will have my hide for it.”

She sniffled. “Don't even joke about that. I've seen too many hides today.”

Ronok sighed. “So, that rumor is true, at least. I don't need to chide myself for cowardice on that matter, then.”

“Running away from Hoshinthra isn't cowardice, it's just good sense. We actually saw one on the way out.” Varda shuddered. “I don't want to fight it. Yantilee wouldn't want to fight it. Only really stupid people would want to fight it, and that wouldn't make any difference because it'll skin them alive and maybe eat them anyway.”

Ronok chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in it. “Get yourself some chowder, Varda, and take it out front. Every eek-freak and scary story merchant in the crew is out there, hoping desperately that you and these little gossips will tell them all the gory details. Very little is known about the Hoshinthra, and they're curious to hear how much is rumor and how much is truth. Witnesses, as you might imagine, are very rare.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Varda said, but went and pulled a bowl out of a cabinet.

“Do it anyway. Talking it out helps to lessen the horror.” Ronok emptied the pan out onto the platter again. “Take it from me, bottling it up will not do you any good at all. I'll be out there too, in a minute. I like to know the shape of my fears.”

In the end, Varda didn't have to say much at all. Dwesk was a natural storyteller, with an excellent command of simile and metaphor, a talent for clear and elaborate description, a fine memory for detail, and a high, thin voice well-suited for eerie tales. Varda could practically see the ghastly scenes taking shape upon the air; there were over a hundred crewmen in the room, all of them watching her with eyes like owls, and they gasped and shuddered in all the right places. Varda was given the privilege of describing the Hoshinthra itself, it having revealed itself to talk to her personally, and she spared no details. Ronok, who had indeed come out with a large basket of fresh cookies, stayed close to her, and she was deeply grateful for that. Even so, she dreaded dreaming that night, and said so.

“Ah, apropos of that,” Doc said, coming up to the counter and rattling a small bottle. “Regardless of trauma, you all must rest. Here. One pill each, to be taken after eating and just before going to bed. These will knock you cold, allow for a deep and restful sleep, and above all, you will not dream. I have already informed Yantilee that you won't be good for much tomorrow; you will oversleep and you will be logy and not quite capable of clear thought. On the other hand, you will be warm and calm, and will be able to return to duty once it has fully worn off. Behold, the magic of chemistry.”

“Ooooooh,” Varda and the Nantileeri chorused, causing a ripple of slightly envious laughter around the room, and a few shouted requests for one of those.

Ronok smiled, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “Shall I settle you into your fort then, girl, and play one of Hantis's prettier recordings for you? I'd sing you to sleep myself, but I've never had much of a voice.”

Varda accepted a small greenish caplet from the medic and nodded, suddenly terribly weary. “That sounds good. Stay with me, Uncle Ronok.”

“I will, Varda,” he murmured, lifting her gently into his arms and carrying her into the back.

Nothing in the universe could be better than this, she thought as she changed into the soft shift she used as a nightgown, to be safe and among family, well-fed and cared for. She breathed deeply of the spicy scent of thelwisk and burrowed down into her comfortable nest, Hantis's beautiful voice exploring the choicer parts of Paradise while Ronok gave her a cup of water to wash down the pill with. She swallowed it, lay down, and was out cold a few seconds later. Ronok stayed put, watching over her until the recording had finished, and then went to attend to his other duties.

 

The dockjocks on late duty that night paused in their work when they heard a mechanical growl, and looked up in mild unease at the green Lion sitting watchfully among the fighters. It wasn't all that uncommon for it to rumble a bit, particularly when the ship was in combat or when its pilot was upset about something. This sounded genuinely irritated, although the great beast made no move. The tale of Varda's visit to the _Night Terror_ had already spread all over the ship, as juicy gossip tends to do, and it was still a hot topic on the bay floor. Zardruss flicked a worried glance at Imlosh and Donok'Vah.

“Think she might go and challenge the _Terror?”_ he asked.

“Nah,” Imlosh replied, “she wanted to do that, she'd have done it while Varda was aboard that craft. No point now.”

Donok'Vah humphed. “Sounded like someone being pestered by sibs. Maybe t'other four are in touch, and want to know what the noise was all about?”

Zardruss shrugged. “Could be. Could be. Hah. If she tells 'em, they won't like it.”

Donok'Vah bared fierce teeth in a grin. “Yeah. That's how m'sibs warned each other off. 'Quit bugging me, or I will tell you!' After enough of that, they learn not to press.”

The Lion did not growl again, so they assumed that its kin were fast learners and went on with their work.

 

As it turned out, the three dockjocks were entirely correct. The Lions had felt the green Paladin's distress and had been bothering the green Lion about it. Shechethra had grown annoyed with them, and had told them exactly what had been going on that day. It shut them up, all right, but the Lion-bond was not machine-exclusive.

 

“ _AAAAAAAGGHH!!!”_

Hunk sat bolt upright in bed, panting in terror and shuddering at the horrifying images reverberating in his mind. He wasn't the only one, from the sound of it; a pair of distant but instantly recognizable howls of distress were echoing in the hall, and he felt more than heard another shriek elsewhere in the Castle. Other than that, there was only silence, and that frightened him more than anything else. _Ohgodohgodohgod,_ he thought desperately, struggling out of his blankets, _are they okay? Are there any of those... those_ Things _in the Castle?_

A glance at the clock told him that it was earlier than it was late; Zaianne was an early riser and often got up for a snack and some tea around now. With a desperate groan, he headed for the kitchen at a dead run. His heart quivered in relief when he found her there, rifling through the fridge in her pajamas, and he did what came naturally as she looked up in surprise.

“Hunk? What are you—oof!” Zaianne said, suddenly wrapped in a huge bear hug. He was shaking, she realized, in a cold sweat, and he smelled of mortal dread. She wrapped her arms comfortingly around his shoulders and patted his back. “What's wrong?”

He didn't have time to answer before Keith dashed in, looking as though he'd seen the end of the universe coming right at him, and Lance was right behind him with an identical expression on his face. “Mom! You're safe!” Keith said, relief crystallizing out of his voice.

“Where's Lizenne?” Lance said, his voice raw with anxiety. “Oh, _quiznek,_ and Modhri? Where's Modhri and Kolanth?”

“In bed, I should hope, and Kolanth's on watch on the bridge,” Zaianne said, frowning in confusion at another staggering and out-of-breath housemate. “Allura? What's wrong?”

The Princess stared at her out of wild eyes, the pink pupils hugely distended, before sagging down onto the bench with a sob of relief. “Thank the Ancients,” she whimpered thinly, “you're alive. Where are the others? Find them! Bring them here, I need to see them, right now!”

Allura was as close to being frantic as Zaianne had ever seen her, and the boys weren't much better. Something had happened to Pidge, she guessed, and it had come back to the others through the pack-bond. “I'll summon them,” she said soothingly, prying herself loose from Hunk's desperate grip. “Go up to the lounge. I'll bring up tea and the last of the cookies. Once we've all gathered, you can tell us what happened.”

Not long afterward, Lizenne and Modhri made their way from the _Chimera_ to the Castle, the dragons following along behind and venting the occasional irritated _gronk_ at being woken so rudely from a sound sleep. They had all been sleeping under the simulated stars in the envirodeck, and didn't really appreciate having been rousted. Any irritation they felt, however, was banished when they passed through the doors of the Castle's main lounge and immediately collected an armful of vastly relieved Paladin. Soluk sniffed the air and grickled softly; Lizenne and Modhri glanced up at him and nodded in agreement—they could smell the fear in the room, too. Real fear, not a mere moment's anxiety.

“Lance, dear,” Lizenne said gently to the young man pressing his face into her shoulder for comfort, “what's going on?”

“I've been trying to find that out, but I can't get anything better than incoherent babble,” Kolanth said, looking disgustingly alert, if worried. “Zaianne thinks that something may have happened to Pidge.”

“That wouldn't be too unlikely, considering the company that she's been keeping,” Modhri said, juggling his own armful of whimpering Altean. “The Lions are quiet, so I don't think that she's hurt or in mortal danger.”

“No, _she's_ fine,” Keith said, eyes dark with profound relief. “It's you we were worried about.”

“Us?” Lizenne asked, surprised. “All right, this I have to hear. Lance, let me sit down and have a cup of the tea that some gods-blessed genius has set out on the table for us—you will have some too, boy—and then you will tell us what had you in such a froth. Honestly, you can face Druids, Haggar, and even Zarkon without flinching, so what could send you all into such a panic?”

It was her tone of voice that did it. They'd been listening to instructions delivered in that calm, firm, authoritative manner for more than a year now, and it eased the Paladins enormously. Modhri settled them further by pouring the tea and handing out cookies, radiating calm reassurance as he did so. They sipped appreciatively at the tea—not hantic, they were still sick of hantic—nibbled their cookies, and relaxed in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Lizenne pointed at Hunk. “All right, you first. What has my elusive little niece gotten herself into this time?”

Hunk swallowed hard. “A Doomrigger. Ghost ship.”

Her eyebrows rose. “There are those who would say that those are a myth. They may or may not be wrong. Continue.”

“It was something right out of a horror vid,” Hunk said uneasily, “you know, sort of grayish, dim lighting, cold, windy, and it smelled weird. It was a big ship, too.”

“Everything was gray, at least until she got out of the pod bay,” Lance said grimly. “After that, there was purple. A lot of purple. Most of it furry.”

Keith made a revolted sound in the back of his throat, clutching at the arm that his mother had draped around his shoulders. “Skins. Galra skins, and thousands of them in that one hall alone, hung on the walls or laid down as rugs. And... and some display cases where they were mounted like hunting trophies.”

Lance shuddered and continued in a sick voice, “Yeah, lots of those. In full uniform, with plaques, like in a natural history museum. Oh, crap, I used to hate visiting that part of the museum when I was a kid! It's the way that those poor things stare and stare at you like it was your fault that some jerk shot them and put them in a case like that.”

“I think that one of those trophies was related to you, Lizenne,” Allura said thinly, “I don't remember the name exactly, but he was a Ghamparva, and the family resemblance was very clear.”

Lizenne frowned. “Oh, dear. Sodorok?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Hunk said. “He looked... um... very natural.”

Lizenne puffed something that might have been a laugh in a previous life. “One of my grandfather's many brothers, and his choice of profession caused a bit of a scandal in the family. On the one hand, his loyalty to the Emperor was unquestionable, and Zarkon himself had hand-picked the man for the job—a considerable honor. On the other, he was a member of a gang of mass murderers, and ranked quite highly among them. I never knew him all that well, for even as a cub I could smell evil, and avoided him whenever I could. He disappeared along with his ship well before I was old enough to leave home. I can think of a number of rather nasty aliens who treat defeated enemies in that manner. Continue.”

“Ugh. Um. Right.” Hunk shivered. “The... the trophies were only part of it. The ship was empty. No crew, no techs, nothing, but she had to... I think she was installing the cloaking system. And there were, like, these invisible entities all over the place, only you couldn't see them 'cause they were invisible.”

Keith heaved a shuddering breath. “Classic haunted-house stuff. Shadows that moved around with nothing to cast them, voices in the wind, knocking in the walls, that feeling of being watched by something that's just waiting for an excuse to do something really horrible to you. She was working in the middle of that for hours. She and... I think she had helpers, yeah, a whole team, had to walk all over that ship, and it was full of dead people. Thousands and thousands of skins. Not just Galra, but mostly.”

“When they finished, they were met by the pod bay by one of the crew,” Allura said, her voice rising in distress. “I have _never_ seen a creature more frightening! And I knew, just _knew_ that if it smelled any of you on me, it would tear the Castle apart to kill all of you!”

“Evil undead doom-moose,” Lance intoned sepulchrally.

“Moose?” Modhri asked.

“Give me a moment,” Lizenne said, lifting a hand and placing it on Lance's head. “Just relax and let me have a look.”

Lance did as he was told and sat still while she chanted a few words under her breath. Eventually, she stopped chanting with a worried frown. “Ah. Hoshinthra.”

Kolanth went white under his fur. Since he was the darkest among the Galra, this was instantly noticeable. “The _Night Terror._ That's no ghost ship. She's real, and we take care to avoid her.”

Modhri gave him a surprised look. “Really? One of my instructors at the Academy swore that she was a myth, a metaphor for one of Kuphorosk's own hells, meant to punish those who died in disgrace.”

Kolanth shook his head slowly and gulped his tea as if to wash the taste of the ship's name out of his mouth. “Real. She usually hunts around the northern Bamnapos Sector, but she has been seen occasionally in the neighboring Minari and Ausa Sectors. One of our Order was captured alive by that monster, and while he was able to escape and provide our leader with considerable information, he retired from active duty afterward and will not leave the planet where he is posted.”

“He still screams a bit whenever he sees large hooved animals,” Zaianne said, “He never would talk about it unless he'd had a good deal of horath first.”

Kolanth flicked her a quelling glance. “The captain of that craft has been hunting Galra for nearly five hundred years now, ever since Zarkon ordered the destruction of that people. I've always wondered why he did that. They weren't doing anything upsetting, and were even willing to pay a yearly tribute in return for being left alone.”

“The Hoshinthra are not quite an Elder Race. More Middle-Aged, really, but they're getting there.” Lizenne sighed and leaned back in her seat, stroking Lance's hair absently. “Their homeworld was an ice planet, although that hadn't slowed them down any; they had discovered genetic engineering even earlier on in their development than we had, and spent over two million years developing it into an art form. Icy though their planet was, they had redesigned whole biomes to be as lush and biologically diverse as a tropical rainforest. They had also developed themselves into numerous subvarieties. The Warleader and Warrior classes, which the _Night Terror_ is an example of, are a case in point. The Warleader is physically and mentally bonded with the ship itself; they are one and the same. Her sons, the Warriors, are basically extensions of her will. They are effectively immortal, although not invulnerable, and once they have chosen an enemy, they are implacable. It wasn't them that frightened the Emperor into blasting their world, however; it was the Mystics. Witches, of a sort, and strong enough to take Haggar down for stew meat if provoked.”

Kolanth and Zaianne stared at her. “How do you know all of that?” Kolanth asked. “We've never had any luck studying them. They're impossible to capture alive, and the dead ones disintegrate in less than two minutes!”

Lizenne gave him a wry smile. “I approached them somewhat differently. Hoshinthra are extremely secretive, but there are ways. They didn't stop with just their own planet, you know. Dozens of cold worlds were terraformed or altered into copies of their homeworld, and the Empire never found them all. Dozens more were created to house the many intelligent races that they bred from plants and animals for one purpose or another. A very fair bunch, their Scientist class; once a created race has served its purpose, they give it a custom-built world and the freedom to find its own destiny. I just gathered clues and records from their children until I found one of the colonies. The local enclave of the Mystic class was interested enough to speak to me. I didn't learn all that much, but what I did learn was fascinating. After that, I turned around and left them alone as per their request. Studying piracy from the inside looked to be more fun at that time.”

Zaianne gave her a hard look. “Were you able to find out about their military capabilities? If just one five-hundred-year-old ship can become the bogeyman of three entire Sectors, what could a whole navy do?”

Lizenne rubbed wearily at her eyes. “I was never able to discover anything concrete, but the Mystics implied that if the Empire ever grows weak, the Warleader class will be ready to exploit that weakness. I can only assume that the _Night Terror_ has been permitted to run loose all this time to further that aim somehow. There are others that were left over from the homeworld's defense force, but all that the Mystics would tell me was that they were standing by. The context, however, hinted that they were in storage rather than off ice-fishing somewhere, and the Scientist class has not been idle since then. I have a bad feeling that this alliance between the _Night Terror_ and the Ghost Fleet will trigger something. The Mystics are in the habit of playing the long game.” She flicked an apologetic glance at Allura. “They do not forget the wrongs that others deal to them, nor do they forgive easily. They will be one of the more difficult races to dissuade from exterminating us completely.”

Tilla gave a chirp and a chatter that startled them all; the dragons had a gift for fading into the background, and it was remarkable how easy it was to forget that they were there. Modhri vented a breathless laugh. “She says that we'll be all right. If necessary, the Elder Dragons will have a talk with the Mystics and sort things out for us.”

“Thank you,” Allura said wholeheartedly. Sitting down at a conference table with an evil undead doom-moose did not appeal to her at all.

“We will, however, need to be very careful how we approach the _Quandary,_ now that it's keeping such dire company,” Zaianne said, glaring at her tea. “No one controls a Hoshinthra Warleader, other than their own superiors. I do not want the _Night Terror_ finding out about us. That means that if I say that I don't like a situation, you will listen to me for once.”

Allura laughed. It was weak and it creaked like a hundred-year-old floorboard, but it was a laugh. “I cannot make promises, but I will definitely try to do so.”

Zaianne rolled her eyes. “Heroes,” she said in a disgusted tone that made the others chuckle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doom Moose brought to you by: Every horror flick that ever stuck to your spine and chilled your brain, nightmares of the most unnerving sort, and the letter Aaargh.  
> Comments and kudos are our fuel and proof that people like what we're writing. They are seriously what gets us through the week sometimes. So please drop us a line with your thoughts. We always love to know what you think about our story. See you next time!


	13. Escalations

Chapter 13: Escalations

 

“ _Green Demon Lion Avatar Summons Infernal Forces To Join Ghost Fleet!!!!”_ Nasty read from the bundle of cheap hardcopy, trying not to laugh and failing. _“Experts Confirm It—The_ Night Terror _Has Returned!!!!”_

“One of these days, you're going to have to show me how to pronounce all of those extra exclamation points,” Haswick said, sipping his drink.

“It's a knack,” Nasty replied, skimming the text beneath the overheated headline. “Yeah, looks like the Talssenemai just scared the pants off of some patrol ship or other. Not a dry trouser in the bridge, I'll bet, and the pilot had the simple good sense to run away when he had the chance. They didn't even get in trouble with the brass about it—no way could they have taken on the _Terror,_ and everybody knew it.”

Kezz sighed and blew steam off of the surface of his drink before sipping. “Well, it's been good for getting new recruits, at least. Got those new kits ready yet, Varda?”

Varda drained the last of the juice from her cup and nodded. “Got that done last night. Will I need to set up more?”

“If only to save yourself some work for the next time we make planetfall, maybe.” Kezz said thoughtfully. “There's been a lot of interest. Nobody likes having Galra around, and Lotor's been doing a lot of damage. That fleet of his needs a lot of feeding, and he's been taking whatever he wants from whoever's handy, and hasn't bothered to pay for any of it. Royal prerogative, see.”

“Filthy pirate,” Haswick grumbled, making them laugh.

They were currently sitting in a modest diner on one of the many smuggler's havens while Yantilee and the other Captains sold their loot and bought fresh supplies and ordinance. Varda expected that they were getting a very good rate of exchange right now because the _Night Terror_ was with them... for the moment, at least. Shussshorim had a bad habit of vanishing whenever the whim took her. Varda suspected her of having rather too much fun with the new cloaking system. On the other hand, whenever that sleek, glossy-black craft was flying with them, Varda's dreams remained simple and unfocused. Haggar had been looking for her again, but like everyone else, she was leery of the Hoshinthra. It was a small, unlooked-for bonus that she was grateful for, and one that she kept to herself.

“Who's joined up so far?” Varda asked.

Haswick shuffled his coils. “Three more since we got here. Captain Phalnagur and the _Sosun's Prize;_ she helped Tchak and Quannock raid a mining colony near Melchon a while ago. She's joining up for revenge's sake, since Quannock fell afoul of the Imperial Prince and was killed. They were lovers, I heard.”

“Sad loss. He was a good captain.” Kezz sighed, ears twitching. “Grand Duke Dablinnit and the _Trinary_ have also signed up. Not surprising, that—his homeworld's another Imperial casualty. Not sure what they did to it, but it's been sucked dry of all life. Not so much as a microbe left. Dablinnit's the last scion of the old royal family. By all rights, he should be enriching the noble gene pool on one of the colonies, but he's damned if he'll let his home go unavenged.”

Nasty signaled the waiter for another plate of toasted chessles. “Number three is old Voan Lenna and the _Skee Hanno._ Should've retired ages ago, but he's having too much fun to quit. I used to work for him before I transferred to the _Quandary._ You'll like him, and his ship's fairly small. No hunting trophies, I promise.”

Nasty had been among the crowd of avid listeners who had heard Dwesk's recounting of their job aboard the _Night Terror,_ and while Varda might not have had nightmares, Nasty had. She nodded in thanks. “Good. Will we be freeing Walmanech soon?”

“Right after you're done rigging up the new guys, maybe,” Kezz said, draining his mug and reaching for the fresh pile of chessles that the waiter brought. “We'll have enough fighters to handle the Governor and his own little garrison fleet at that point. If we can take any of those ships intact, Yantilee figures that we might teach the locals how to use them and then leave them there as the backbone of a future defense force. The Fleet captains are already picking out trustworthy crew to hang around and make sure that nobody gets any silly ideas about using the chaos to further their own ambitions. Stability will be key.”

Varda cocked him a curious look. “How are we going to keep our guys from doing the same?”

Kezz smirked, waving a chessle at her. “Yantilee has her ways. She's also wise about picking her targets. The Walmans used to be a monarchy before the Galra crashed the party, and were a pretty good one. The Galra keep the commons in line by keeping the royal family in captivity. Care to stage a daring rescue with us, Miss? You've got some experience in doing that, I believe, and the Captain won't get mad at you this time.”

Varda sat back and made a show of considering that. “Only if Nasty's allowed to come along, I promised him that. Besides, all swashbuckling rogues should get the chance to save a beautiful alien princess once in a while. There is one, right?”

Haswick chuckled. “I don't know. We'll just have to find out, eh?”

Nasty waved a couple of hands dismissively. “Nah. Rescuing princesses is overrated. Half the time they want to marry you, and that never works out. I'd rather rescue the crown jewels. Lighter, quieter, and the exchange rate's better.”

“Barbarian,” Haswick humphed.

“Yup.” Nasty agreed easily, and glanced at the clock. “Whoops. Shore leave's over, folks, and duty calls. I need to check a bad thruster on a boarding shuttle, you guys need to babysit the bridge so that Luddi and Vorlenn can have a turn portside, and you'll want to talk inventory with Maozuh.”

Varda set down her cup a little regretfully; she didn't get as much time off of the ship as she would like, but then nobody did. “Yeah. I hope that she was able to find more of those emitters. We're running low.”

There was, as Haswick had said, only one way to find out. Maozuh, as it turned out, had found a bonanza of parts in the haven's junk shops, and the _Quandary's_ stores now had enough emitters to outfit the entire fleet twice over, so she used some of them to prep an extra kit and then went to the kitchens to help Ronok put away the groceries. He hadn't gone ashore this time, not with the _Night Terror_ looming in the docks like a waiting shark, but he'd gotten his assistants well-trained enough to do his shopping for him, and they were fond enough of the old Simadhi by now to do that job properly. They'd found mettic paste for him, too, and a fresh batch of cookies was already being taken out of the oven by the time she arrived to help. After that, she went up to the bridge to see if she was needed. Yantilee was present and speaking to a wide selection of callers, all ship's captains or officers from the look of them; he was outlining his plans for the liberation of Walmanech, and specifically, what should happen after they had driven off the Imperials.

“It seems odd that you will ask only a token reward,” one of them observed at one point. “A few tubs of pureed insect larvae is hardly the standard repayment for the freedom of a planet.”

“Walmanech has been under Imperial control for several decades, and they have been treated very badly,” Yantilee replied calmly. “They will not have the energy or the wealth to supply more than a token. I am thinking in the long term—I want a stable port of call for us, a port that is willing to supply us fully and at cost in the future, a safe haven that will not betray us, and a place to plan other such liberations.”

“Including mine, I should hope,” someone said quietly.

Yantilee's hearing was excellent. “Yes. Mine as well. And many others.”

“You have a Lion,” a red-streaked furry person pointed out. “I have seen it on the newsnets. Have you an alliance with Voltron as well?”

Yantilee chuffed, leaning back on his tail. “Not with the whole team. That one was a rescue, and one that I count as a good friend and a staunch crewmate. I can hope to make a proper alliance with the rest soon, but I've no idea where they are. As badly as the Imperials want us, they want the Lions even more, and the Lions know it.”

“Caution is a good thing,” another captain hummed thoughtfully. “Take care—I do not put it past the Galra to try to trick their way into your confidences. It may be difficult to ascertain the true Paladins from the false; they have allied themselves with the Blade of Marmora, and a bit costuming and stage-acting might trick even the wary.”

Yantilee gestured concurrence with a pair of big hands. “I know. The one I've got is the real thing, though, and that great beast can smell a fake from a lightyear away. I'm more worried about Lotor. He's been following us closely, although we seem to have lost him for the moment. If he shows up while we're dealing with Walmanech--”

“ _I have seen the Prince.”_

Everybody jumped, including Yantilee. That was the Talssenemai; her echoing whisper was unmistakable.

“ _I have harried its flanks and frightened its men. It has seen me, and fears me. It should not have brought so much prey into my hunting ground.”_ She sounded positively cheerful, if that were possible. _“It is a fool, and allows its pride to drive it into foolish pursuit. I have led it through the Firefalls, the Singularity Swarm, and the Teeth of the Void, and those have cost it many ships; it currently rests at Borumnar Two, recouping its forces. Elikonian, you will give my thanks to the brave spawnling for her fine gift. I have not had such pleasure in the hunt for centuries.”_

“I will,” Yantilee said with laudable composure. “So, that's where you've been, eh? I would ask the Talssenemai to keep us posted on her discoveries as they happen.”

Shussshorim vented her whistling laughter.  _“Yes, you would. Pardon this errant Warleader, Elikonian. I am no longer accustomed to working with a fleet. I will go now to watch it again—just to watch—and I shall tell you when it moves once more.”_

Her connection cut out, and the others were silent for a long moment. “Creepy,” someone muttered.

“And ungovernable, but very useful,” another commented. “By the Azemadi, the Firefalls? I would have thought that no one could navigate that place intact, and there's not so much as a smudge on her hull!”

“You spend five hundred years exploring unknown space, and you'll soon be as good at it,” sighed another captain. “We may have to do something about the Prince before we can free Walmanech, although if the Emperor loses his son, either alive in our clutches as a hostage or dead in that monster's hands as a display piece, we may have more trouble than we can deal with. Find the rest of Voltron, if you can. We'll need it as backup.”

“The Emperor has other sons, but you're right.” Yantilee rubbed reflectively at one leg with a lower hand. “I'll do my best. Think over my proposal, if you will. You are free to refuse. If you change your mind and want to join up later, I will not refuse you.”

The others murmured parting pleasantries and signed off. Haswick looked up at Yantilee, who was staring thoughtfully into space. “Think they'll join us?”

“This must happen, and no one will do it for them,” Yantilee murmured, “they'll talk among themselves, and will find that in the long run they will have no other choice. I figure that some will join now and the rest will join later. I just hope that the Talssenemai doesn't spur Lotor into doing something _really_ rash before we find the other Paladins.”

“Like what?” Varda asked, coming forward to watch the _Night Terror_ slide out into space and vanish.

Yantilee waved one upper hand vaguely. “The Empire has bigger weapons than the ships we've seen so far. Things capable of destroying whole fleets at a time, or planets. I've seen them in action. It wasn't nice. There aren't all that many of them, though, so he might have trouble getting hold of some.”

“He's a Prince,” Varda said.

“He's a Prince with his own battlefleet,” Yantilee smiled wickedly. “He's got over a hundred warships, and he can't fight off a band of pirates? Yes, one of them is a nightmare thing out of one of the uglier hells, but that's hardly an excuse. Still, it's a possibility that I have to think about. How have you been holding up?”

“Pretty well. No nightmares—I need to thank Doc for that pill. I've got four kits ready to go and can set up more anytime. Dwesk says that she and the rest of her mob are ready and able to work, so long as the next ship isn't as creepy.”

Yantilee chuckled. “Good. I've noticed that you've been making some modifications to our own ship as well.” He pulled up a leg of his shorts, showing dark bruises on the leathery scales. “I stepped on one on the upper deck near the officer's cabins, and the paneling gave way.”

Varda winced in sympathy. “I'm sorry! I knew that I should have reinforced that one more, but I ran out of bracers. I'll take that one out, if you want.”

“No, just repair it—properly reinforced this time.” Yantilee dropped the heavy fabric and patted her shoulder. “You aren't the only one who has spent some time making this ship expensive to board. At least these traps are nonlethal.”

“For now,” Varda said grimly. “If we go into emergency mode, Osric's allowed to kick things up a notch. I've got friends and an uncle to protect, and I'm not going to let anyone skin them--” She stopped, bile rising in her throat at the thought of a Hoshinthra invasion.

Yantilee drew her close. “She is a dangerous ally, but a useful one. She's got better targets to consider than one elderly cook, but keep up the good work all the same. What'll work on her lot will work twice as well on Galra.”

“Or on Varda-hunters,” she grinned evilly. “It's keeping them sharp and up to a good challenge.”

“And you fit and sneaky.” Yantilee ruffled her hair fondly. “It's also fun, to hear the crew talk. I'd join in myself, but Elikonians aren't built for sprinting. My distant ancestors took things slow, climbing trees in the jungle and waiting for food to come to them.”

Varda looked up, and then further up at Yantilee. “Big trees.”

“They are, yes.” Yantilee looked wistful for a moment. “They came down from them eventually, though, and found other ways of doing things. We still can't run fast, but we can fight, and what enters our reach doesn't leave it until we let it go. We're also pretty good at gymnastics, believe it or not.”

“What happens if I want to leave your reach?” Varda asked.

There were several layers to that question, and Yantilee heard them all. “Then I'll let you go,” he said soberly. “You're a hero, girl, and heroes are like caida-birds. You can't hold them more than lightly, for they'll fly no matter what you might desire, and all you can do is be glad that they chose to perch on your wrist for a time.”

 

As big as the question had been, the answer was bigger, and Varda was still thinking about it when she went to bed that night. Yantilee had as good as told her that she could leave at any time, freely and without reproach... but there was nowhere to go. If she left, even to search for her lost family, she would be leaving behind a very great many people—hundreds of them—who were counting on her for her unique skills. Her protection. She would be leaving behind the only people in the universe that she could trust, and yet... and yet the thought of finding the other Paladins filled her with deep longing. She wanted them near her, in her heart of hearts, all four of them... five of them? She wasn't sure. The others said four, but somehow she knew it was five. Huddled in the thelwisk-seed fort that her beloved adoptive uncle had built to protect her, she quivered with uncertainty and turned to the only one who might have an answer.

“Shechethra,” she whispered, “what do I do?”

_Wait,_ the cool green voice told her, soothing her nerves.  _Wait. Stay here for now. There are things that must happen, and they may only happen while you are here. Leave later. The others are coming, but these people need you too. Sleep._

Somehow she knew that that was as good an answer as she was going to get, so she snuggled down and went to sleep.

 

_And while she slept, the Ghost Fleet left the smuggler's haven, armed and supplied and ready for just about anything. Despite the_ Night Terror's _assurances, the many captains were feeling cautious; they split up and scattered, agreeing to meet again at a prearranged point known only to them, the better to get the new members outfitted with the cloaking system in peace. First, however, they each had their own roundabout routes to take..._

 

Varda walked among the yellow grasses again, still searching. There were hints of them on the night breeze now, and just a hint of their voices on the fragrant night air. Both moons were full and blazing-bright tonight, so bright that she could almost see it glinting off of the darkness. She whistled faintly, like a night-bird, and listened for any reply; she did not dare call out any louder than that, for the hunter in the darkness was still out there, still searching, and she was still not strong enough to fight it alone. She had been lucky last time, very lucky. Someone had given her a weapon, and she had discovered it just in time. She still had it, hot and golden within her, but its first strength had been spent, and she was not sure of how to go about replenishing it. Caution would serve her best, and so she continued in stealth, nose to the breeze and ears attuned to the smallest sounds. She paused, catching a pair of other scents; faint but present, the reek of the hunter. Fainter still but as sharp as knives, a different monster entirely. Not dangerous to her, perhaps, but lethal to all others. Tonight was a night for every living thing to move with utmost care.

 

_While the hunters and the hunted moved on the Mindscape in deadly earnest, two more ships hunted on a different plane. They had followed Lotor's fleet with great care to stay unseen, and so had witnessed the black ship that had harried and misled him earlier, and had now come back to watch as the somewhat reduced fleet replenished itself at a military outpost of some sort. The navigator of the Castle of Lions had cleverly noted the vectors and energy levels at which the legendary_ Night Terror _had come in on, and had extrapolated them back to the starting point of its journey. They arrived just in time to see the_ Osric's Quandary _leap into hyper, and followed..._

 

Varda was running now. The monster—Haggar—had picked up her trail. She could hear the sick crinkling sound of the tall yellow grasses dying as the witch's miasmas killed them, and her pack was still too far away to help. The sharp smell of the other monster had faded entirely, and the witch approached with renewed confidence. There was no cover out here, no safe places to hide, and no help for the lost. All she could do was run, and hope that she found her pack before the monster caught up with her.

 

_The Castle and the_ Chimera _were fast ships, but the_ Quandary  _was perhaps a little faster. They had no sooner come out of the wormhole than the corsair had jumped again, and the navigator's fingers flew as he calculated speed, direction, and distance. The pilot, receiving his coordinates, spat an exotic curse and opened another portal..._

 

Varda finally turned at bay. There was nowhere to run to, and thus there was no point to running at all. She could no longer smell or hear even the slightest sign of her pack—only the reek and the rustle of the monster registered now, and Varda knew that she had been carefully herded away from any who could help her. Haggar was very old, very experienced, and a talented predator. Varda couldn't see her yet, but she knew that the witch was close. Varda concentrated on catching her breath and readying the weapon that she'd been given, diminished though it was. She had no chance to use it, however, for seven points of agony burned in the back of her mind and down her spine, like fishhooks embedded in the flesh. She gasped out a cry, and then fell over sideways as something like cables attached to those points and were yanked mightily. Her weapon shattered like spun glass, dissipated into mist, and was gone. The monster was suddenly _there,_ looming above her like a thundercloud, yellow eyes burning like fires. _I have come to the end of my patience long since, girl,_ the witch snarled, giving the cables another pull that made Varda scream. _First you dared to elude me, and then you dared to defy me, causing me an injury in the process. Now you have dared to consort with a creature who is inimical to me, but that will not save you. There will be no third escape. You will come, and come now. You have no choice._

“No!” Varda gasped, struggling to her feet and pulling back.

_Yes,_ the witch said,  _you will. You will fetch your Lion and bring it back to its rightful owner, and then you will submit to me and my Druids. You will do this_ now.

“No!” Varda struggled to resist, but the pain was nearly unbearable. “I won't!”

_Defy me all you like, but it will do you no good, girl,_ Haggar gloated, pulling her forward a few steps. _I have taken far stronger mages in the past. You are clever, but you are untrained. Come. You shall receive all the training you need shortly._

 

_Jump after jump the great ship made, the Castle and the_ Chimera _right behind them, until finally the_ Quandary _came to rest among its fellows at the prearranged meeting place. The two support ships came out of their wormhole a respectful distance away, fortunately; any closer and the pirates would have opened fire. As it was, the two parties stared at each other in surprise for a long moment._

“ _By the Ancients,” Coran said over Zaianne's litany of cursewords, “we've gone and surprised the whole fleet!”_

_On the bridge of the_ Osric's Quandary, _the navigator's language wasn't much different than Zaianne's, but the pilot had a different observation to make. “Company, Captain! Two unknowns, just out of weapons range. A Hanifor science vessel and a... what the_ glorsh _is that?_

_Yantilee narrowed all three eyes at the trespassers. “Hanifors don't come out here. Too many yellow stars. I've never seen anything quite like that other ship in my life. No point in taking chances.”_

_Yantilee reached for the fleet-comm, but before her big fingers could touch it, a vast mechanical roar reverberated through the entire ship..._

_Aboard the Castle, the black Lion let out a furious bellow that was echoed by the other three; every seam and rivet in the castle vibrated in harmony, and the Paladins yelled in shared shock and anger..._

 

Varda screamed and fell to her knees, but refused to move. Haggar pulled at her unmercifully. _I will drag you out of this wildland by force if necessary, girl, and screaming in agony all the way. There is no escape. Your fellow Paladins are not here. They do not hear your cries. They have quite abandoned you to your fate, and none will come to rescue you this time. I have won. Concede, and obey me._

Varda sobbed, but knew that the monster was right. Even so, she would not go easily; through the hooks embedded in her skull and her spine, she could feel something of the nature of the witch that had claimed her; the boundless malice, the uses that she had put her power to over the long centuries, and what she intended to do with Varda herself. This revolted her, and she refused to submit tamely. A word came to her, heavy with import, and she hissed it between her teeth as she hauled herself to her feet. _“Kheshveg.”_

_What?_ The witch snarled, as though unable to believe what she had just heard.

“ _Kheshveg,”_ Varda repeated, glaring defiantly at her captor, inwardly amazed at the power the word lent her. _“Kheshveg_ once, for trying to erase me.”

_Silence!_ The witch snapped.

Varda wasn't listening.  _“Kheshveg_ twice, for trying to erase my family.”

Haggar shrieked in fury, yanking on the cables again, but the power of Varda's words anchored her to the ground and shielded her from pain.

“ _Kheshveg_ a third time, for all the others you have erased in the past,” Varda said, pulling back against Haggar's bonds, _“I will see you dead at my feet!”_

Haggar let out a snarl of fury, a crackle of purple forces streaking down the cables to reinforce the controls already sunk deep in Varda's nervous system. Varda cried out and nearly fell, but would not move from her spot. _How dare you, you filthy worm,_ she said in a low voice that dripped with venom, _you are lost to them already. You are mine now, and will never touch your fellow Paladins again, lest it be to cause them pain. You will never be near them again without discomfort, and never know peace until they are dead. You will see them all transformed into Robeasts, and you will aid in their breaking and transformation._

“Don't listen to her!” a new voice snarled out of the darkness, and the monster hissed in shock, staring around wildly for the source of that shout. Varda started up with a gasp. She knew that voice!

A tall, dark shape flashed out of the grasses to the right and slammed a fist hard into Haggar's face, knocking the witch flat, the cables dissipating into shards of livid light. He caught her wrists and straddled her waist, holding her down, before turning to face Varda. “Run!” he shouted, struggling to keep the furious witch pinned. “Get going! I can't hold her for long!”

Varda knew that face. The strong features, the kind, dark gray eyes, the scar across the bridge of his nose and the white forelock that she'd always wanted to tug on... “Sh... Shiro?”

“Go!” Shiro shouted, voice raw with stress.

“She'll kill you!” Varda said, groping for a weapon that was not there. “Shiro, you've got to—”

He shook his head. “There's no time. You have to go. Get back to your Lion, _now,_ and don't worry about me. Move it, Katie!”

She turned and ran, half-blinded by tears. Behind her, she heard the sounds of a fight, and the rageful screech of the Emperor's own witch--

 

“ _What in the name of the Sabrinox of Twirg was_ that?” _Kezz demanded, clutching at his ears._

_Yantilee uttered a thundering growl. “That was the Lion, and it sounded angry.” A big fist hit the intership comm. “All ships, all ships, hear me now! Plan 2, I repeat, Plan 2! Voip and bail!”_

_The Fleet did not argue with the Admiral when she sounded like that. As one, all ships cloaked and scattered, fleeing into the safety of hyperspace on different vectors, thoroughly confusing the trail._

_Aboard the Castle, Coran added a few Altean swearwords to Zaianne's vocabulary._

 

Varda awoke suddenly, with a gasp, a spine that still ached as though someone had jammed cactus thorns into it, and a howl of anguish and loss that was heard even over the noise of the big shredder. Moments later, she found herself wrapped in a pair of pale-furred arms and held tight, and a worried voice that murmured “It's all right love, I've got you,” soothingly into her ear.

Not knowing what else to do, she clutched at Ronok's apron and wailed like a baby, grieving over the fate of one she had loved and lost twice before. All Ronok was able to do was to hold on and weather the storm, and it was some time before she was able to hiccup and sob into exhausted silence. Ronok heaved a long sigh, rocking her gently.

“So,” he asked eventually, “was I a rather motheaten wall hanging this time, or was a monster chasing you through the grasses again?”

He received a rather garbled and muffled description of her nightmare, crammed into the breast pocket of his apron as it was, with an extra-large side order of heartbroken whimpering. “One of these days,” he murmured quietly, “that witch will come to a sticky and ignominious end, and all of the universe from core to fringe will declare a national holiday, with feasting, drinking, dancing, loud music, and possibly the deification of the person or persons who put her down at last. Their fame shall last for ten thousand years, at the very least. It's only fair. Tell you what, love, you find out where that vile woman is lurking, and then we'll set the _Night Terror_ on her. She'd make a good skin, wouldn't she? Possibly useful as armchair upholstery, or better yet, a footrest.”

Varda's hand smacked against his rump, and she glared up at him with reddened, tear-filled eyes. “Don't try to be funny. He sacrificed himself to save me. She'll find him now, and kill him, or worse! She'll take him to pieces, or turn him into a monster, or both, _and I can't do anything to help him!”_

Ronok sat back, letting her go. “I have heard it said that the only rightful sacrifice is the sacrifice of self, and it is a gift not lightly given. Who is Shiro, Varda?”

“I don't know,” she sobbed. “I can't remember.”

Ronok grunted sourly. “Whoever he is, he feels deeply enough about you to endanger his own existence for your sake. Such men are rare, and attract others of that nature to themselves like iron filings to a magnet. I will assume, then, that he is known to the other Paladins, and that they are aware of his loss as well. You may not be able to do anything to help him here and now, but they might well be. He also strikes me as a canny and competent fellow in his own right, if he has been able to conceal himself from Haggar for any length of time at all. I cannot say that everything will be all right, but we can hope.”

“And if it isn't going to be all right?” she asked stubbornly.

Ronok looked away, the bitter lines in his face deepening. “Speaking from personal experience? We will grieve for a time, and then move on. If a way to avenge the loss presents itself, we will take advantage of it. Harsh words, I know, but they're all I have.”

Varda felt a twinge of guilt at that. Ronok had lost as much as she had, and more, and with no hope of ever getting any of it back. “I'm sorry.”

He vented a soft, amused puff. “No need. Fellow-sufferers need not apologize to one another for this sort of thing. A little bit of breakfast might make you, if not happier, then willing to face the day without biting it on the _hapleks._ You'll need it—we still have three or four new recruits who will be yelling for their cloaking systems soon enough.”

Varda groaned, but agreed. To tell the truth, a good installation job with a team of chirping, cheerful Nantileeri sounded like just what she needed. She ate her bowl of hot cereal with forlan berries and headed up to the bridge, still a little depressed, but as Ronok had predicted, willing to face the day without wanting to do a violence to it... not too much, anyway. Maybe a sparring match with Nasty later would make her feel better.

When she arrived on the bridge, she noticed that Kezz, Haswick, and Yantilee looked a bit worried, and that the other ships were missing. They were also in orbit around a white dwarf that she didn't recognize. “Where is everybody?” she asked.

Kezz glanced back at her. “Elsewhere. We got surprised last night and had to pull a Plan 2. We're letting Osric recharge his core here, and we'll meet up with the others out by Vanet Tetra.”

Varda groaned again. “Lotor?”

“No, a pair of complete strangers,” Haswick said, not taking his eyes off of the instruments. “Big ones, though. Yantilee didn't like them and neither did your Lion, so we left.”

Varda stared at him. _“Shechethra?”_

Haswick flicked her a confused glance. “You didn't notice? That Lion roared fit to split the hull. What were you doing that let you ignore that?”

Varda thumped down in a vacant seat. “Having the worst nightmare ever. I don't want to talk about it. Who were the strangers, Yantilee?”

“One was a Hanifor science vessel, and a big one,” the Captain said in that even tone that meant that she was thinking hard about something, and the ridge of blue feathers down her throat had fluffed up again.

Varda frowned. “Don't they live halfway across the galaxy from here?”

Yantilee shrugged. “Means nothing. Hanifor scientists get everywhere, but they don't like Sectors with yellow stars much. They're thin-skinned and burn easily. Still, you'll always find one with an adventurous spirit and a bottle of sunscreen. What's worrying me is the other one.”

“What was the other one?” Varda asked curiously.

Kezz shook his head. “Haven't a clue. It was bigger than the Hanifor; big enough to be a capitol ship, mostly white with blue accents, and it looked like nothing that any of us or the crew have ever seen before. Not even Osric has anything like it in his silhouette library. It's either really new or really old, or from somewhere the Empire hasn't been yet, and your Lion let out an almighty bellow a few seconds after it popped in. Just about the only thing about it that was recognizable was that it was running a Teludav system, but that doesn't tell us much. Teludav systems are tricky to set up and need some pretty exotic materials to make, and you need a Balmeran crystal and someone with a touch of witch-talent to run them, but the principle behind them is fairly simple. In short, anyone can build one.”

“Although...” Yantilee murmured thoughtfully, giving Varda a long look. “Now that I think about it, I have seen something similar. Your armor, Varda. The style of construction is similar. Something about the way it's shaped, and the little blue lights.”

“What does that mean?” Varda asked, intrigued.

Yantilee only shook her head, all four shoulders rising and falling in a shrug.

 

Haggar awoke in her scrying chamber, flat on her back and aching in a dozen places, most notably her face. Her questing fingers found the right eye to be bruised, and swollen nearly shut. Her wrists were bruised as well, and her ribs, and there were sore spots on her legs that spoke of the strength of her attacker.

Her attacker. Oh, yes, she knew the face of that one. She had seen it helpless before her, drugged and slack on the lab table. She had seen it in the arena, frozen in a warrior's concentration. She had seen it contorted in fear as it faced her, framed by a Paladin's helmet. She had sensed that alien's presence, however faintly, in the healing chamber on the day where long scratches had appeared as if by magic in the floorplates. The black Paladin, a mere stripling who had stolen her Lord's Lion and—impossibly—his bayard. Cold anger rose in her mind as she put a few other facts together, and she decided to check on something important. She rose with difficulty, stiff muscles, and not a few curses, and made her way out of the scrying chamber toward the Emperor's private suite. As she did so, she passed a young guard who stared at her battered face, and then fled when she glared at him. That made her feel a little better. Abject terror was something that she'd always enjoyed seeing in Galra males. The older ones she passed stayed as still as statues, but she could sense their shock and fear regardless. Only the Druids who guarded the Emperor did not register it; she had seen to it that they no longer felt such things.

The Emperor himself lay as quiescent as the last time she'd checked up on him, unchanged and unwaking, not even twitching when she removed his ornamental helmet and laid her hand on the leathery hide of his head, the other resting over his heart. There had been a time when... no. That was past, now, and she had more important things to think about. She pushed her awareness down into his sleeping mind, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing immediately obvious, of course; she'd done this several times before, looking for the block that kept Zarkon in his coma. This time, however, she looked deeper, down into the place where the soul itself formed bonds. Deep down, where the last hot, garnet-colored traces of his Lion-bond still lingered, was a distinct whiff of cerulean, and a presence that did not belong there. Right there, in the one vulnerable spot in her Lord's armored soul, where the Lion itself had wounded him long ago. “Found you,” she whispered triumphantly, and pulled herself out.

Haggar then summoned every Druid she had to the healing chamber, expelled every other living creature from the entire deck, and made certain preparations. The ritual she was planning would not be easy to perform, nor would it be a simple matter to contain the results. Great care would have to be taken to avoid damaging herself, her Lord, and her victim. Oh, yes, she wanted that last one alive and intact. She had _plans_ for that one. Plans that would, if events progressed properly, result in the destruction of the other Paladins.

Hours sleeted by unnoticed in the force of her concentration as she and her Druids set up the wards and containment fields that would isolate this one room from the normal flow of space and time, allowing the physical plane and the Mindscape to become one for just long enough; it was a truism of magecraft that while such an operation was nigh-impossible the first time, the second time was much easier to accomplish. Easy being a relative term, of course. Dark prisms of crystallized energy hovered in profusion around the Emperor when she had done, an installation that would have fatally exhausted any witch who did not have whole planet's worth of Quintessence near to hand. It was necessary; not only would she be pulling a living, physical person across a dimensional barrier, but she would need to contain and isolate that person himself. However light his soul-bond with the black Lion might have been, that machine would know instantly where and when the Paladin was if she did not move to conceal it. Voltron's Paladins had already done considerable damage to both to Zarkon and to his seat of government. She did not want another meeting with them unless it was by her own will, and on her own terms.

When Haggar judged everything to be in readiness, she arranged her Druids around the Emperor's pod in a ring, herself beside him in the center. She commanded that they activate the containment fields and feed her their power. Strange symbols formed on the decking around the Emperor's pod and hung in the air in a fog of livid lavender light, splashing over every flat surface in arcane arrays and humming with power. Haggar drank it all in and added it to her own strength, and then thrust a metaphysical arm directly down into the Emperor's heart. A dreadful smile spread itself across her face as her spiritual hand found exactly what it was looking for. She had hooked a hero, all right, young and brave and willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but with only the very bare basics of training in the metaphysical protections. Lizenne had given him a few tiny seeds of such things, but he hadn't had the time to develop them properly. It was no effort, no effort at all to seize the fool and pull him free from her Lord's spirit like a burr from his cloak, and when she pulled her spirit-arm out again, she pulled a blaze of cerulean light out with it, a vague shape that coalesced into an armored man that she gripped by the collar and hurled to the floor with a shriek of triumph. He landed hard, but scrambled up, only to be caught in a bubble of dire forces cast by several of her Druids. On his plinth, Zarkon twitched, grunted, and subsided again, this time into a more normal slumber.

“I have you at last, you filthy wretch,” she gloated, smiling cruelly at the Paladin. “If I had known that it would have been so easy to flush you out, I would have made my move long ago. Did you really think that you could hide forever?”

He bared his teeth at her defiantly; truly, it would be a joy to break him. “It was for long enough. You'll never get your hands on her again, witch, it's too late for that. Keeping Zarkon flat on his back was only a bonus.”

Haggar laughed. “A bonus, indeed! If I cannot have her, then I will simply kill her, along with all of the rest of your little cadre. You have given me the perfect tool, boy. You are trapped; you cannot reach the Lion now, nor can you call for help. You are alone, and no one will come to save you.”

His fist slammed uselessly into the forces that surrounded him, and her mocking laughter echoed cruelly around the room as the shadows in her power enveloped him.

 

Zaianne eyed the confused, angry Altean with some interest. “I'll want you to tell me what those mean at some point.”

Coran blushed. “Um... ah... well, they're not suitable words for a lady to know.”

She smirked at him. “I haven't been a lady since I escaped out of my bedroom window for the last time. Female? Yes. Ladylike? No. I have a collection of dirty words that spans the languages of galaxies entire, alphabetized and sorted by anatomy, culture, and philosophical mores. One day I might publish it. What does _'gorok!aus'_ mean, and what body parts, activities, substances, or concepts does it concern?”

“ _Madame!”_ Coran protested.

They got no further with that discussion, for the Paladins clattered onto the bridge in an angry rush, followed closely by Soluk. They'd been on the training deck, probably sparring with the dragon, for they were in full armor and still had their bayards out. The Paladins were deeply agitated, both angry and afraid, shouting conflicting demands and looking around for something to bash to pieces. Fortunately, Zaianne knew the cure for that, a little gift from her adoptive sister. She steadied herself against the piloting controls and spoke a short phrase in an ancient language, and sighed as a cool, grass-scented breeze blew through every mind in the room. The shouting stopped, and Soluk winked appreciatively at her. Zaianne leaned on the pilot's posts with her chin propped on one fist. “What happened?”

“We should be asking you that,” Allura said, taking off her helmet and rubbing at her forehead. “We were sparring with Soluk, and then suddenly--”

“We felt Pidge!” Lance blurted. “She was in trouble, bad trouble, Haggar'd caught up with her and the Lions roared and... and... we kind of freaked out, I think.”

“She's okay,” Keith said, putting away his bayard. “She's upset, too, but she got away somehow.”

Hunk heaved a huge sigh. “Yeah. Don't know how. Something felt really weird there for a moment. Thanks for the cool-down, by the way.”

Zaianne waved a finger at them. “You lot need to learn how to control your emotions. Passion's useful and very heroic, but it can very easily get in the way of clear thought, and that can be fatal. While you were playing with the dragon, we were shadowing Lotor, who's currently stripping a military base of every working ship and crewman.”

“Patrols will be a bit thin over there for a while,” Coran observed with a twirl of his mustache, “and rather nervous. The _Night Terror_ showed up again, although it didn't attack. Probably lying in wait. A bit fond of the old jump-scare routine, d'you think?”

Zaianne straightened up with a thin smile. “I think it's required, if you're a well-established nightmare with a reputation to maintain. Since we have it on the best authority that Pidge was in contact with that ship, Coran back-calculated the trajectory of its last jump, so we went to have a look at where it had been. Believe it or not, it led us straight to the  _Quandary.”_

“You found them?” Hunk said, “That's great!”

“Yes, but they dodged away from us,” Coran humphed. “We wound up chasing them all over the Sector, and eventually found ourselves among more company than I would like. Thank the Ancients that Zaianne's a paranoid, for we came out a healthy distance away from the whole Ghost Fleet. They've got enough ships now to give Lotor a run for his money, if they need to. We were just about to hail them, but the Lions surprised us. The green one may well have surprised them into scattering, if it reacted to Pidge's distress like yours did. If so, their Admiral's a canny sort. They've scattered in such a way as to confuse the trail totally. I can't tell where any of them have gone.”

“An old pilot's trick, and a very useful one,” Zaianne informed them. “Good only for groups of large ships, I'm afraid. If you align your fleet so that each ship has a different vector, then jumping away all at once on different headings will muddle the drive trails together so that pursuit of any one ship is impossible. We did very well to follow them this far, and doing so has tired me out. They will probably dash and dodge all over the local starlanes to make sure that they won't be bothered again for a while, anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Allura sighed and turned frustrated eyes on the stars. “We were so _close._ Well, we do have a way of finding her now, and no amount of dodging around will foil it. The Lion-bond. We will find her through the Lion-bond.”

“Very good,” Coran said. “So, where is she?”

The Paladins concentrated for a moment, focusing on the swirl of colors at the centers of their being, and turned as one to face left. Allura raised a hand and pointed at a patch of glittering space. “Over there... no, there. No...  _there..._ Drat it, Pidge, stop moving!”

Zaianne laughed and stepped down from the dais. “Well done, Princess, but we can't get a fix on them until they stop jumping about. In any case, how does 'over there' translate into jump coordinates? I'm going to go have a snack and a nap. Call me when things have settled down, eh?”

They watched her amble out of the bridge, leaving them to contemplate the cosmos. Hunk rubbed at his face and glared at the stars. “Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning. That used to sound so cool, once.”

Lance pulled off his helmet with a sigh. “Yeah, but which star is that? There are too many of them, and Peter Pan was a creeper, anyway.”

“He certainly didn't know a thing about astronavigation,” Coran sniffed. “'Second star to the right', indeed! That's a good way to end up in the middle of nowhere, or halfway through someone else's space station.”

“He was an elf,” Keith replied absently, “and the place he was going doesn't exist in this universe. It was only a story, anyway. Want to go back down to the training deck, guys? We never finished the bout.”

Soluk grunted and nudged him in the back; somehow, he'd managed to find a net-bag of bristle brushes and was giving them all a very pointed look. Allura smiled and took the bag from him. “No, I think that we're done for the day. Personally, I don't mind that much. Is that what you're telling us, Soluk, that patience is as necessary as action?”

Soluk chirped noncommittally and flopped down on his side, and the Paladins each took a brush and saw to this familiar duty without complaint.

“Patience yields focus,” Keith sighed, scrubbing dutifully at Soluk's scales.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Shiro, and sorry for the rough landing.  
> ^_^ Wanna scream at us? Need to tell us we're evil? Or just wanna fangirl? Drop a comment and make us happy.


	14. Reunion...With Difficulties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat early update for everyone, because work has been kicking my ass and if I tried to wait it just Wasn't Going To Happen. Enjoy!

Chapter 14: Reunion... With Difficulties

 

“Okay, that's about it,” Varda said, sitting back on her heels in the service duct. It was cramped and dim, but it was warm and smelled like oranges. “You can run the tests now, Captain.”

“ _Right you are, Miss,”_ Captain Voan Lenna replied through the comm she'd clipped to her belt, _“Rho'an, do be a lad and see whether or not we can be one with the eternal void for a little time.”_

Varda smiled. Captain Lenna was the sort of person that people tended to call “that dear old man” behind his back, and when he inevitably overheard them, he would pretend to be gruffly offended. He had a tendency to act like everyone's uncle, and in self-defense, everyone let him. He was also an excellent captain, and his men were fiercely loyal to him.

“ _System tests clean, Cap'n,”_ Rho'an replied, _“So do the bug scans. Both bug scans. Those Nantileeri of hers have cleaned out that infestation of bockles we had. Might think of hiring a few on next time we make port, sir. System test in three... two... one...”_

Varda heard a distant hum as the power core that had been salvaged from a wrecked scout ship came to life, and she counted carefully under her breath to see how long it would last. “Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three--”

The humming died down. _“Excellent!”_ the captain's voice exulted, accompanied by cheers. _“Two and a half_ lenta, _or I'm a plarth! Ahhh, what a grand time we shall have of it, boys, running rings around those arrogant fools while they tumble about in confusion. Well done, Miss, you and your team may return to the_ Quandary _at your leisure.”_

“Thank you, Captain,” Varda replied cheerfully and began to pack up her tools.

Seventy-three seconds! She could be proud of that, and the other fleet captains would definitely agree. The _Skee Hanno_ was the smallest ship among them, but it was the fastest, and had the best mass-to-firepower ratio of any ship in the fleet. Lenna also happened to be an expert stunt pilot despite his advanced age and took great pride in his skills; he was a deadly fighter, and she'd just given him a huge force-multiplier.

Dwesk and the others met her at the pod bay chirping happily among themselves, the occasional burp sounding among the birdlike noises; Nantileeri loved bockles, and in fact, Dalo was carrying a small box in his hands that probably held the queen and a few drones. Well, there were still a few vacant containment units in the Hydroponics section back on the _Quandary,_ which meant that Ronok would soon be trying out a few new recipes. That was good—if they had a new happy bug feed to obsess about, the Nantileeri might not steal so many of her cookies in the future. Her suspicions were borne out when Dalo headed straight for Hydroponics the moment that they were back aboard the _Quandary,_ but she didn't mind. For now, she was done with installing cloaking systems and could afford to be pleased with herself. She helped Dwesk and the others to stow the leftover parts and put away the tools, and then headed up to Ronok's kitchen for a snack. He was in a good mood today as well, since the _Night Terror_ was off somewhere else. Probably nipping at Lotor's heels again, she figured, although not without some misgivings. Varda didn't like thinking of how many pelts might have been added to Shussshorim's collection since she'd joined the Fleet. Well, there was nothing that she could do about it, so she accepted the skewer of grilled vegetables and meats that Ronok gave her, devoured every savory morsel, and headed up to the bridge.

The fleet was at rest at the moment, orbiting a modest little gas giant in the Polausha System, and intership chatter drifted quietly from the speakers on Luddi's console while Yantilee sat on a modified seat that the Supply crew had dragged out of storage. Few races were as large as the Elikonians, and as a result, none of the common furniture aboard the _Quandary_ had been comfortable for Yantilee to sit on; in defiance of this and in one of the rare bouts of selfish thinking that Yantilee displayed, he had ordered the Quartermaster to look for something that would do. Rumor had it that Maozuh had had to dig right down to the bottom of the oldest storeroom to find the thing, which had been a piece of original equipment—the captain's chair belonging to the original incumbent. They'd had to replace the tattered upholstery and add a few layers of padding, and remove some of the odder limb-rests and cut a hole in the back to accommodate Yantilee's tail. Even so, it was still a little large for him. Sikkhorans were even larger than Elikonians, which many had found to be difficult to believe.

Yantilee didn't mind, and was leaning on one armrest, listening thoughtfully to the chatter and observing his proud company.

“It's all starting to come together, isn't it?” Varda said, walking up and leaning on the side of the chair. “You've got your fleet, and a pretty good one, too.”

Yantilee clucked his tongue. “Old Admiral Zebaloon would have called it a motley passle of odds and sods, and would have laughed at them... at least until certain of the more dangerous ones had crept up behind his flagship and took out his engines. He was a bit of an elitist. Damned fine Admiral, but he was dead set against mixed crews.”

“I like it just fine,” Varda said.

“So do I.” Yantilee smiled. “Talent knows no single race. Voan Lenna is very pleased with your work, and is currently discussing tactics with Phalnagur and Tchak. They've got some very interesting ideas for small-ship maneuvers. Did you ever figure out how to cloak the fighters effectively?”

Varda shook her head. “Not yet. I can cloak them, that's not a problem, but I can't find a way to let them know where each other is without alerting the enemy, too. I'll think about it. There's got to be some way.”

Yantilee hummed and was about to reply when a spot of blue appeared on the screen, well away from the fleet. As they watched, a pair of large ships emerged from it, a big blue-green Hanifor science vessel and a white-and-blue mystery. Varda stared. She knew those ships. She couldn't name them or remember who flew them, but they were as familiar to her as her own right hand. The Fleet had no such familiarity, and startled shouts and requests for instructions began to pour from the _Quandary's_ comms.

“Don't open fire!” Varda heard herself shout, “they won't shoot if we don't start anything. I... I think that I know those people.”

Yantilee gave her a sharp look, but backed her up. “Hold your fire!” He boomed over the comm. “These may be friendly. Your Lion is quiet this time, girl. What does it have to say?”

Varda shook her head; she felt strange, both yearning for those two ships and oddly repelled by them, and Shechethra's voice was muffled by the static caused by these two clashing emotions. “No, Shechethra roared last time because there was a monster in my dream, and it almost got me. I don't... I can't think! My head... hurts...”

Yantilee gazed at her in sudden concern and was about to speak, but Shussshorim's eager, echoing whisper sounded harshly through the comms.

“ _To arms! The Prince is coming!”_ the Hoshinthra vented a long, jagged whistle. _“The Ghost Fleet has been spotted, and the Prince's own fleet comes to challenge ours!”_

 

Aboard the Castle, the Paladins gasped in awe at the sight of the Ghost fleet. They could feel the green Lion now, and Pidge as well, although something about her felt wrong. She was upset, and there was an edgy, jagged feeling to that emotion that wasn't like her at all. Lance, who was high-strung at the best of times, shifted nervously. “Something's wrong, guys. Feel that?”

“Feels like trouble,” Keith said uneasily.

“Well, they aren't running away this time,” Coran observed. “Perhaps she's had a chance to explain all about us to someone who would listen. I shouldn't be surprised if there was a fair few over there with twitchy nerves and twitchier trigger fingers, piracy being a nervous profession.”

“They're letting us make the first move,” Zaianne said in a tense voice, gripping the pilot's posts tightly. “They know that they can take us on. They're waiting to see what we do next. Modhri?”

“ _I agree,”_ Modhri said from the _Chimera. “You might as well contact them and then let Allura do the talking. Zaianne, let Allura take the helm and get out of range of the screens; Galra aren't popular out here, except as prey.”_

Zaianne nodded and dismounted the dais, handing it off to Allura with a slight bow. Allura, every inch the Commander of Lions, stepped up and took her post. “Contact the _Quandary,_ Coran.”

“Right away, Princess,” Coran said cheerfully and reached for the button. His hand was less than an inch away when proximity alarms started to blare and the space around them was suddenly full of huge purple ships. “Oh, no! It's Lotor again!”

Allura reacted instantly, moving the Castle away from the oncoming enemy, the _Chimera_ close behind her. “Bring up the particle barrier!” she shouted, “I'm not going to let the Fleet get away from us this time!”

“Oh, wow, look at the pirates!” Hunk said.

The Ghost Fleet had also reacted instantly, but they weren't about to leave without striking back first. The mighty _Osric's Quandary_ surged forward, the smaller ships forming up around it, shields aglow and guns blazing. Salvo after massive salvo burst from the Ghost Fleet's guns, and Lotor's drone fighters burst like bubbles under the touch of that firestorm. As they watched, one of the larger Galra cruisers stopped firing its cannons; its lights went from purple to blue, and it shattered three other ships before its neighbors were able to disable it. To top it all off, another ship, sleek and deadly and glossy black appeared above and behind Lotor's flagship, and a hideous cry rang through every active comm in local space—the battle-scream of a Hoshinthra Warleader sounds like a banshee that has just won the lottery. Allura gasped and froze in instinctive terror as a storm of actinic bolts from the _Night Terror_ showered over the Prince's fleet in every possible direction. Including the Castle's, unfortunately. Zaianne pulled her from the dais and took her place, forcing open a wormhole and hurling the Castle through it, the _Chimera_ following them so closely that they were in danger of scorching the blue-green hull in the backwash of the Castle's thrusters. They came out only a few lightyears away in a neighboring star system, shaken but undamaged.

“ _Khreosh,”_ Zaianne swore, pale under her amethyst fur. “Lotor, you miserable _skeroth tai'ghrolurt,_ may hordes of _chamnaks_ infest your _lekvadhi_ , and may the Hundred Thousand _Komatchwai_ take you for an _inlomach ahrrush tuk-lok-framnit._ Seven times may they _supurrit_ your _thekosh,_ and without mercy may they _opelvit sha'nahkvar—_ with extra hot sauce.”

“ _Madame!”_ Coran said, looking genuinely shocked. “Your language! Think of the children!”

“I did. That's why we're still alive,” Zaianne retorted.

“ _Tumokni,”_ Allura spat; she had fallen rather awkwardly to the floor when Zaianne had yanked her off of the dais and was sitting there looking both frightened and angry. Less frightened and more angry, now that the initial shock had worn off. _“Lulenma tsorept'tak monuq!losh. T'quiran dlekpalo neralk sad!va.”_

“ _Princess!”_ Coran gasped, looking even more horrified. “Where did you pick up that sort of language?”

“From you,” Allura snapped back, “that one time when you dropped that crockpot on your foot. _Quiznek,_ but we were so close! Close enough to feel Haggar's curse on her—Lizenne, did you feel that?”

“ _I'm not part of the Lion-bond,”_ Lizenne's voice came through the comm, sounding similarly shaken and irritated, _“but it doesn't surprise me at all. We already knew that Haggar had struck at her. That was what set off the Lions the last time, after all. If that foul_ thashmurga pok'banmat _has managed to alter or enhance whatever stuck from the initial curse, things could get very difficult for us._ Tajvek _that fool of a Prince! May that Hoshinthra take extra care and attention in relieving him of his pelt. Better yet, may she have an opportunity to practice her hobby upon that witch.”_

 

“Is it gone?” Lotor asked, hearing the hint of a tremor in his voice and hating it.

Nobody else seemed to have noticed his fear, but then again, everyone on the bridge was similarly rattled. The Hoshinthra's beams had come all too close to overloading the flagship's shield generators.

“It's gone, Highness, along with all the rest of them,” his lieutenant said, envy coloring his tone; Lotor knew that the man truly wanted to add that cloaking system to his own ship. “Not without destroying six of our ships, however. Seven, actually. The heavy cruiser that they suborned is out of commission and will stay that way until they are able to replace the AI. Twenty more are badly damaged and will need repairs before they can fight again, and many others are reporting lighter but still significant damage.”

“And the pirates' own casualties?” Lotor asked.

“Minimal, Highness. A few of the fighters only, and none were captured alive.” The lieutenant drew in a deep breath to steady his nerves. “I do not like this. We surprised them, but they made us pay for it. If they add any more ships to their number and find an opportunity to surprise us, or even to pop open some netherhell or other and add another Hoshinthra to their fleet, we could be in bad trouble.”

That was a lesson that the entire fleet had learned the hard way. The bounty upon that one black ship was huge, and the honor to be gained from removing that monster from the starlanes even greater; when the _Night Terror_ had appeared before them that first time several days ago, alone and seeming-vulnerable, any ambitious warship captain might have been tempted into going after it. The subsequent chase through three of this galaxy's most dangerous natural wonders had taught them the error of their ways. That mad Hoshinthra had led them on a terrifying chase, first through the searing streamers of stellar matter in a solar system where three small red and yellow stars were being devoured by a much larger blue one, then through an old globular cluster full of tiny black holes that had wreaked havoc on his ships, and then finished up the trip in a featureless stretch of interstellar nowhere that had been nearly impossible to escape. Blocking all sight of the neighboring constellations and confusing the ship's sensors had been a swarm of giant delashthine crystals, themselves visible in the ship's brights only as great planes and angles of shadow; and all the while they sought for escape, echoing in their comms had been the whistling laughter of the _Night Terror_. They had only barely gotten out alive and nowhere near intact, and every surviving man aboard his ships had been frightened nearly out of their wits. Including the Prince. Lotor growled in fury and thumped the arm of his chair with a fist. Very few things in life had ever frightened him, and he did not like the feeling at all.

“Then we will not permit them that opportunity. I will make arrangements that will allow us to wipe those filthy vermin from the face of the cosmos. First, regrettably, I need to speak to Haggar. Open a comm channel to Parzurak.”

The comm officer obeyed instantly, although it took a minute or two for Haggar to reply. When she did, everybody had to stare for a moment at her image on the screen. Some lucky creature had managed to land a blow on her face that had left her with a magnificent shiner.

“Haggar?” Lotor asked, startled to find that anyone or anything could have gotten that close to his father's witch.

She touched the dark bruise with a grim smile.  _“There has been a touch of excitement recently. What do you want, my Lord?”_

“Merely to report an interesting occurrence of my own,” Lotor replied; yes, that must have been a very solid punch. The swelling had gone down, but the bruise was starting to turn all kinds of interesting colors. And were those marks on her wrist also bruises? “We encountered the Ghost Fleet just a few minutes ago. Before we engaged them, however, we spotted the Castle of Lions and the _Chimera Rising_ approaching them. We have competition for the prize, Lady Haggar, or at the very least, a greater opportunity to acquire the whole set. Would you like to join me in this hunt?”

Haggar puffed a faint breath, although whether it was in humor or not, he couldn't tell. _“I cannot. Your Father is awake, although he is groggy and weak from being comatose for nearly half a year. I finally found out what was holding him unconscious, and as a result, I have captured the Champion. That one is no longer of use for obtaining the Lion, but he will provide your father with something to torment until I can devise a more fitting end for the creature. I have also ensured that the green Paladin will not be able to form Voltron with the rest. See how I have made things easy for you, boy? Now go and capture those Lions as your Emperor has commanded.”_

Lotor gritted his teeth. “I see, Lady Haggar, and I will. I will bring him the skulls of the Paladins as well.”

Haggar narrowed her eyes at him, but did not otherwise make any reprimand. _“Very good. We shall speak later, as events progress. Signing out.”_

Lotor nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he sat back in his chair for a long moment, his temper seething. They were in competition for his father's favor now, that was clear enough, and the witch seemed to be in the lead. “Boy”, she had called him, as though he were a child, or a servant! She felt confident enough, as a matter of fact, to dismiss his implication that he would simply kill the green Paladin rather than deliver it alive, as she had previously desired. It was just as well that he'd already decided to do that anyway; he was tired of seeing his own proud ships being suborned and blasting everything around them until they were forcibly disabled. Not before he had pried the secret of the cloaking system out of it first, however. It was just possible that he would have to cement his own authority in ways more forceful than this delicate dancing around, and the ability to move unseen would give him an enormous advantage in the future. If nothing else, it would certainly please his Father. A very large percentage of the Empire's might rested on its military. A new advance in technology would bring them closer to absolute domination of the known universe. First, however, he would have to obtain it, either in the form of the Paladin, or in a captured ship. To the furtherance of that aim, he would have to smash that pirate fleet, and especially that mad Hoshinthra. Lotor smiled. He knew just the thing.

“Open a channel to the Hokuros Fleet Garrison,” Lotor commanded. “I wish to borrow a few of their ships.”

 

“ _Ghazmet,”_ Varda cursed, clutching at her head; the conflict in her mind and the effort of cracking the shielding on that heavy cruiser had not mixed well. _“Kumshlamp. Porwhop. Hasmilimad._ That filthy, socket-wrench-sucking _paskudnyak_! I _knew_ those ships!”

Yantilee smiled grimly. “Princes often lack good manners. At least we were warned and able to rap his knuckles a good one. I'll have to talk to some of the crew about teaching you bad language, too, although I've never heard that last one.”

Varda grimaced against the pounding in her head. “It's from my world, I think. It's the worst thing that you can call anyone.”

“Really?” Luddi said interestedly.

Varda heaved herself to her feet and dug in her pockets for any cookies that she might have missed. “Yeah. It means that somebody is a terrible, horrible person with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The kind of guy who has millions of innocent people tortured and killed just because he wanted someone to take the blame for everything that was wrong in the world, when it was really all his lot's fault. And so he can steal their stuff.”

“Good one,” Luddi said, to general agreement, “good one. It's even true in spots. You look like you need a liedown. You'll fret yourself into a premature molt like this. Send her off to her nest, Captain.”

Yantilee gave Varda a weighing look and nodded. “With a side trip to Doc's clinic for a painkiller. Go, girl. You're no use to the ship with your eyes rolling around in their sockets like that.”

“Thanks,” Varda said and left the bridge.

Doc was very understanding, if quite busy; while they'd been fortunate enough to have lost none of their fighter pilots while beating off the attackers, no few of them had minor injuries from the rough rides they'd endured. Kezz had his shirt off when she arrived, and she helped him rub balm into the bruises that his crash harness had left on his chest and shoulders before she left. Ronok, bless him, met her with a large plate of baked yanmitz when she stumbled into the kitchen, and he tucked her into her fort the moment that she'd finished. She woke the following morning with a clear head and spent that day helping the maintenance teams run repairs on Osric's systems. It wasn't until two days later when things got interesting again.

 

“Varda,” Haswick's voice came through her personal comm, “they're back again.”

“ _Tushwa,”_ she muttered and put down the new proximity detector prototype that she'd been fiddling with for the last month. “Coming, Haswick. Any sign of the Prince?”

“Nope, and the Talssenemai's gone off to look for him. He's her favorite playmate right now, and she does pine if he's gone for too long.”

Varda giggled. “She wants him for his body, Haswick, or parts of it, at least.”

She grinned at her friend's laughter and trotted briskly up to the bridge. Sure enough, there were the two strangers standing at a polite distance away, shields down and guns inactive. That was a statement all by itself in the etiquette of starship pilots, she had learned. The strangers felt confident enough in their own abilities to expose themselves like that near a potentially hostile fleet while still exhibiting due caution, and yet were polite enough to give that fleet plenty of room. It spoke well of them, but that didn't change the fact that they'd been following the pirates for purposes unknown, and were therefore suspect. Something in her mind hissed that the two big ships, the white one in particular, was evil and should be destroyed instantly; her Lion disagreed vehemently, the cool green voice turning hot and windy, with a profound scent of mint that stung in her sinuses.

Yantilee nodded at her and waved a hand at the image on the screen. “They haven't made contact yet, and we're letting them make the first move. If nothing else, they've piqued the curiosity of the Fleet.”

“Signal coming in, Captain,” Haswick said.

“Put it through,” Yantilee replied.

A window opened on the screen, although nobody was in it. There was a certain amount of whispered conversation, however.

“ _Coran, not yet!”_ someone hissed.

“ _Sorry, Princess, hand slipped.”_ someone replied in an irritated tone. _“I'm feeling a little crowded here for some reason.”_

“ _Mom, get out of range and stay out of range!”_ a third voice growled, _“These guys have real issues with--”_

“ _Shhh! Let me up there—Lance, get out of the way!”_

Yantilee, Varda, Kezz, and Haswick traded puzzled glances at this disorganized conversation, but paid careful attention when someone did come into the screen. Varda stared. It was definitely a female, with brown skin and white hair, large blue eyes gleaming in a proud and aristocratic face. The eyes had pink centers and her ears were pointy, and there were more pink markings on the cheekbones; otherwise, this person might have been mistaken for one of Varda's own kind. Varda swallowed hard as the noise level in her head increased; she _knew_ this person from somewhere, but that voice in her head was telling her that this person was a fraud and no friend of hers. Shechethra disagreed loudly with that, and vouched for her honor in a blare of grassy scents.

“ _Greetings, Ghost Fleet, and in particular the Captain of the_ Osric's Quandary,” she began in a cultured voice. _“I am Princess Allura of Altea aboard the_ Castle of Lions; _I am the Commander of Lions and Paladin of Voltron.”_

“Altea?” Kezz said, a little surprised. “Good trick there, Miss. Altea was smashed ages ago, and the only Alteans left are being kept in a bubble at the Emperor's pleasure.”

The young lady's face hardened, and she narrowed her eyes at the pilot.  _“It's a long story, and I intend to free my people when the nearest opportunity arises. Do I address the Captain?”_

“That would be me,” Yantilee said, stepping forward, “Admiral Yantilee of the Ghost Fleet and Captain of the _Quandary._ You've gone to a lot of trouble to seek us out, Princess. Any particular reason why?”

Varda could think of several, even with her head full of conflicting voices; she wouldn't be alone in that, but thankfully the other Captains of the Fleet were letting Yantilee take the lead here. The Captain, as always, was being cautious, gathering as much information as she could while offering as little as possible.

The Princess gave Yantilee a faintly suspicious look. _“We, the Paladins of Voltron, have been missing a member of our team. Considerable research has indicated that your ship may be housing the missing green Paladin and her Lion. We would like to speak with her, if she is presently aboard your ship.”_

Yantilee waved an indeterminate hand. “Interesting. We've got what appears to be a Lion, yes, and the pilot. That's public knowledge, especially if you read tabloids. Can you describe your missing Paladin?”

The Princess looked surprised for a moment, and then looked around herself. She reached out and grabbed at something out of camera range. There was a yelp from offscreen, and when she pulled her hand back, she pulled an indignant young person along with it. That one was familiar, too, somehow, unmistakably the same sort of person as Varda was, although much darker of hair and eye. _“Our missing Paladin is of a race that is not common in this Sector. She is shorter than this one, with brown hair and golden-amber eyes, over which she wears corrective lenses, and she is extremely good with computers and technology.”_

Yantilee glanced at Varda out of a side eye. “Yes, that's the one. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to recognize you, and I have no proof that you are who you say you are, either. Anyone can read tabloids, and everyone wants the Lion. You'll have to prove yourself to us before I'll allow you within thirty _palnesk_ of the girl.”

“ _What sort of proof do you require?”_ The Princess asked, letting go of her captive.

“Show me the Lions,” Yantilee replied bluntly. “The one I've got is real, and can tell if the ones you've got are fake. I've learned to trust the beast's judgment, and that of its pilot. Refuse, and we'll leave. Try us again, and we'll open fire. Far too much is at stake here, what with that Prince rattling around and causing trouble.”

“ _I understand,”_ the Princess replied. _“Give us a few ticks and we'll be right out. We will be in contact on this same channel. Stand by.”_

The window closed. Yantilee heaved a gusty sigh. “Well, we knew this would happen sooner or later. I wonder what took them so long, actually. Something wrong, Varda?”

“I...” Varda stammered, rubbing at her eyes. “There are voices in my head. More than usual, I mean. One's saying that they're bad and we should shoot them down, but Shechethra says that they're friends... my head hurts.”

Kezz and Haswick glanced back at her in concern, but Yantilee directed a deep frown in her direction. “That's new. I'd trust your Lion more than I'd trust that new one, girl. This may be important.”

“The other voice is... very loud,” Varda replied. “I can't think straight with all of the yelling!”

Kezz hissed sharply. “Ah! Look there! What has the Lion to say about those, Varda?”

Four great feline figures had exited the Castle of Lions and flew in smooth formation, halting just out of weapons range of the Fleet, black, yellow, red, and blue. “Colorful,” Haswick observed. “Are those the real thing, Varda?”

The Lions roared in greeting, and Shechethra's answering boom was heard right through the floorplates of the bridge. All of them heard the joy in that bellow.

Kezz smiled. “Hmmm, yup, I'd say so.”

“ _Admiral Yantilee,”_ the Princess's voice came through the speakers, the pride very plain in it, _“may I present the Lions of Voltron?”_

Varda swallowed hard on a dry throat. Her back and shoulder muscles were aching with tension now, and she was sweating from the stress of it. “They're real. I'm just... I can't...”

Yantilee was watching her closely. Something was wrong, and she couldn't quite put her finger on what that was. More information was needed, and those strangers out there were the only ones who could supply it. “Very impressive,” Yantilee said. “My resident Lion vouches for yours, although the pilot is having some difficulty. Will you come aboard to discuss your aims with me?”

There was a surprised pause from the other end, and a faint voice, just barely audible, advising against it.  _“Hush, Zaianne,”_ they heard the Princess hiss quietly back,  _“I am fairly sure that we can handle ourselves, and the green Lion will surely help us if things go wrong. Admiral Yantilee, I accept the spirit of your request, although you have yet to prove to us that you are hosting the green Lion and her Paladin here of their own free will. As you might agree, tabloid publications are not the most reliable sources of information. Our Lions might have confirmed that their sister is here, but not whether she is free or captive.”_

“Fair enough,” Yantilee conceded mildly, “although any spacer within a hundred-lightyear radius will tell you that the _Quandary's_ a free ship these days. I don't keep slaves, nor do I trade in them, and no person on board is required to stay or to leave at my word, save only if they betray me and the ship. Your girl's my First Mate, incidentally, and a valued member of my crew. I'll send her up in the Lion to guide you in.”

Varda looked up sharply at Yantilee. “Captain?”

Yantilee nodded. “Pull yourself together and bring them in, girl. This may be very important.”

Varda took a deep breath and fixed Yantilee with a hard look. “Is that an order?”

Yantilee rarely gave her orders, which gave the ones she did give extra weight. “It is.”

Varda heaved a sigh and did her best to tune out the fight in the back of her mind. “Very well, Captain,” she said, and headed for the docking bay.

 

It was just as well, she thought later, that Shechethra was perfectly capable of flying herself. What with the screaming argument going on in the back of her mind, Varda wouldn't have trusted herself to fly a paper airplane, and it got worse the closer she got to the other four Lions. It did not help that the Paladins cheered at her approach. Varda took a deep breath and shut the noise in her head away. She would be of no use to anyone if she had a nervous breakdown out here, and Yantilee had been right. Parts of her were insisting that these people were both friends and family, people that she'd been yearning for ever since she'd joined the crew. She could not afford to make mistakes here. She cut across the cheerful calls in a level, cool voice that shut them up.

“I am First Mate Varda of the _Osric's Quandary,”_ she said, exerting rigid control over her own trembling emotions. “You will follow me down into the docking bay, where a section has been cleared for your Lions. I will then take you to speak with the Captain.”

There was a brief, worried silence.

“ _Well, that's her voice, but I'm not sure who's using it,”_ someone said dubiously. _“I mean, Varda? What kind of name is that?”_

“ _Probably an aftereffect of the curse,”_ Varda heard the Princess say, _“I very much doubt that they have anyone of the dragons' caliber on that ship, and Lizenne did say that it was meant to affect the memory.”_

“ _Yeah, but... 'Varda'? That sounds like some sort of ethnic musical instrument, or a Tolkien character, or a brand of overpriced ladies' shoes or something.”_

“ _Shut up, Lance,”_ the Princess said sternly. _“Very well, First Mate. Lead on.”_

“Follow me,” Varda said, turning her Lion around.

They formed up behind her with practiced ease, although their pilots didn't seem to know how to be quiet. It was common even for the seasoned crew to comment on the sheer size of the old Sikkhoran Grand Freighter, but out of respect they rarely joked about it. Not so these people.

“ _Look at the size of that thing,”_ one of them said.

This elicited a snicker from the one called “Lance”.  _“That's no moon!”_

A third voice sighed. _“All right, both of you owe me a geek penalty. Hunk, Lance, I get all of your cookies.”_

Lance made a rude noise, and the first one vented a bark of derisive laughter. _“Hardly. You can't deny cookies to the guy who makes 'em, pal. Don't sass me, or Tilla gets your share.”_

The Princess made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. _“I can't take you people anywhere.”_

“Are you listening to this, Haswick?” Varda asked.

“ _Yup,”_ Haswick replied. _“If these are the best and brightest that Voltron could find, we're screwed.”_

“Totally,” Varda said. “Heroes, my foot!”

“ _We can hear you, you know,”_ the third voice said conversationally.

“What?” Varda said, and glared at her control board, hearing the laughter of the Lion in the back of her mind. _“Shechethra!”_

“ _Yeah, through the helmet-comm. Easier to keep in touch that way,”_ the one called “Hunk” said.

“I've got a helmet comm?” Varda said; she had not known that.

“ _Sure, it's built in, and now I know that your head's messed up. You're the team's uber tech goddess, and you didn't remember about the helmet-comm? Something's wrong in there.”_

Varda blinked. “I like the 'uber tech goddess' part, but I didn't know about the comm. Shechethra, I can hear you laughing. Stop that. Bad kitty.”

“ _Who's Shechethra?”_ Lance asked.

“My Lion,” Varda said, frowning at the screen.

“ _Wait, your Lion has a name?”_

“Yours doesn't?” How did they not know this?

There was a shocked pause. _“Blue! You've been holding out on me! I feel so betrayed!”_

“ _Shut up, Lance,”_ number three said wearily, _“try for some dignity, will you?”_

“ _He left it in his other pants,”_ Hunk chortled.

“ _I don't have any other pants,”_ Lance snapped back, _“I haven't exactly had the time to make any, and the sewing machine still fires its needles across the room whenever I get too close.”_

“ _So, use the Auto-tailor,”_ the Princess said.

“ _No. Altean butts are not the same as Human butts, and everything that machine comes up with gives me a wedgie.”_

Varda heard a grickle from Haswick.  _“So very, very screwed,”_ he said, and Varda could not help but to agree.

Their banter turned to awed noises when she led them into the docking bay, which was slightly gratifying. Indeed, the vast open area with its neat rows of docked fighters, shuttles, scouts, and pods was very impressive. Hunk, alas, did not stop there.  _“Toys,”_ he said in an eager, covetous voice that would have had the ship techs lining up to throw him out of an airlock if they could've heard him.  _“Look at all of those cute little ships! I want some of those for my birthday, guys. Can I play with them, Pidge? Huh? Please?”_

“ _Later, Hunk,”_ the Princess said wearily, _“and only if the Admiral says that you may. They're not hers, you know.”_

Varda was of the personal opinion that every electronic device aboard was in some way hers, but didn't comment on it. Instead, she led them to the designated area where her own Lion usually berthed, and they lined up neatly beside her as if they'd been doing it for years. Varda dismounted quickly and stood warily by her Lion's front paws to watch the others as they climbed out. She had to steady herself as they did so, for the noise in her head got worse the moment that their feet hit the decking, and a spike of pain stabbed down from the back of her skull to the base of her spine. Bearing down hard on it, she studied her guests. They were all taller than her, of course, in armor that was the same as hers in all but color. She knew them, she could feel that they had been as close as siblings, but she could not bear to approach them. Instead, she touched the comm button on her belt.

“We're in, Captain,” she said a little stiffly, “where do you want me to take them?”

“ _Second deck's stateroom,”_ Yantilee replied, _“I want them nowhere near the bridge. I've got the best fighters among the crew here, Doc as well, and all fully armed; warn the Paladins not to make any silly moves, please.”_

“Right,” Varda said, noting that the big one in yellow armor was staring greedily at Kezz's treasured fighter, the red and blue ones were bickering again, and the Princess, in rose-accented armor, was trying to get their attention without actually having to hit them over the heads with something. Varda growled one of Ronok's better curses under her breath and snapped, “I will now take you to see the Captain. You will follow me, and you will not lag behind, because I will not wait for you. You will not antagonize or annoy any of the crew, and you will keep your weapons holstered! They are pirates, and they will react badly if threatened.”

“Pidge?” the tallest one said, looking concerned at her sharp tone and turning away from the fighter. “You're hurting, aren't you?”

“My name is Varda,” she replied bluntly, fighting down a sudden, irrational urge to throw herself into his arms. “Now, come on. We don't want to keep the Captain waiting.”

She turned and strode away, hearing them scramble to keep up.

Someone must have alerted the crew to what was going on, for the halls were lined with curious crewmembers, and she wondered what rumors were being passed around; many of the looks they were giving their guests were not at all friendly, and no few were speculative. Many of them had their own weapons on display, and she heard one of the Paladins mutter, “Whoa, talk about rogue's galleries. I don't think that any two of them are alike!”

There were mutters among the watchers, too, few of them polite. That was only natural, of course, but when Onokto wondered aloud about how big a bounty they'd get if they offered the Galra the full set, Varda took steps. These people, if she could just get the noise in her head to stop, might just be her family. “Osric, number five.”

Onokto disappeared downward with a startled yelp, his nearest neighbors leaping aside from the trap door that had claimed him. There was a thump far below, and a faint exclamation of disgust. “Oh, man,” one of them said, peering down through the hole, “Rh'attz's laundry day, huh?”

“Yes, and he'll stay down there until this is over with,” Varda said sternly, “that's not how you speak to guests.”

“Yeah, you tell 'em, Pidge,” the blue Paladin said, and she skewered him with a glare that nearly took the enamel off of his armor.

“Come on,” she said, and headed onward.

The second deck's stateroom wasn't far from the docking bay, thankfully, and Varda was grateful to take her place by Yantilee's side. There were plenty of her good friends here as well. Nasty was lurking by the doorframe, eyes suspicious and hands resting on the hilts of his favorite knives. Varis, leaning tall and blue in the opposite corner, his stun cannon leaned up against his shoulder. Doc was standing unobtrusively behind a few other people, checking the action on his tranq gun. Zardruss was here, and Lonopti, and Niktau, Sadleh, Umzot, and Twell, and several others that she knew and trusted to stand at her back.

“Don't look like much, do they?” one large crewman murmured in her ear as she took her place.

Varda shook her head. Zoallam was a new recruit, a big and nightmarish-looking Abyoran who had transferred over from the _Agent of Spare Change_ to further his education. Varda liked him very much; despite all of the horns, claws, fangs, and hideous clan tattoos, he was a gentle soul who enjoyed carving delicate, lacy lampshades out of eggshells in his spare time.

In the meantime, the Paladins were staring up and further up at Yantilee, who towered over everyone else in the room.

“Whoa,” the yellow Paladin said nervously, “Captain Godzilla!”

Yantilee cocked her head at that one. “What'd you just call me?”

“Um, sorry,” the yellow Paladin said, “does that mean something rude where you come from?”

Yantilee gave him a thin smile, showing a hint of fierce teeth. “A bit.”

“Huh. Where we're from, Godzilla's the name of a classic vid star. Huge fan base and everything, and practically a sacred tradition in at least one country.”

Yantilee snorted. “The universe is a strange place, but that's not important right now. What is important is the conflicting desires in this room. You wish to coax my First Mate and the best technomage I've ever seen or heard of from this ship; we will hear your reasons, and then Varda will make her choice. Your move, Commander of Lions.”

The other Paladins looked at the Princess, who suddenly didn't look quite so sure of herself.

She rallied well, though, squaring her shoulders and glaring up defiantly at the imposing Elikonian. “We are the Paladins of Voltron,” she began in a clear, authoritative voice. “Defenders of the Universe and sworn to remove Emperor Zarkon from his throne. I assume that you've heard of us.”

Yantilee leaned back on her tail. “Some. Of the machine itself, rather than those who pilot it. There are a lot of old legends floating around as well, not all of them heroic, and not all of them believable. Word's reached us that you picked a fight with Zarkon himself and laid him low, although that's smuggled news—the local Galra Governors try to hush that one up, since, true or not, it might give people ideas.”

“That's true,” the blue Paladin piped up, “we came, we saw, we trashed his super suit and beat up his witches.”

The red one shot him a quelling glance and said in a far graver tone, “It cost us, though. More than we were willing to pay. We weren't able to finish the job, and we've still got a long way to go before we can break the Empire's power. We can't do it without you, Pidge.”

That last was directed at Varda, who shifted uneasily but did not answer. Yantilee humphed softly. “You won't be able to do it, period. Not without allies, and powerful ones at that. Even so, it will take years.”

“We've got allies,” the yellow Paladin said, “we've got the Olkari on our side, and the Blade of Marmora, and the Balmerans already, and a few others. We've even got a sentient mobile fort named Clarence, and we'll pick up more as we go along.”

Yantilee nodded. “A good start. And a decent base in which to find other pilots for the Lion. You should be training replacements, in case one of your team is wounded or killed. Varda came to us gravely wounded—Doc tells me that another few hours without help and the damage to her brain would have been permanent. As it is, she is missing most of her memory. I assume that that was battle damage.”

“We were ambushed by Lotor's fleet while on a mission,” the Princess said, “Haggar was with him, and hit us with a very powerful curse. Had we not received immediate care, we would have been crippled or killed as well; even so, it took some time to recover. We have people aboard our ships who can treat such injuries, and may be able to return your First Mate's memory to her. Please, if you will allow Lizenne to have a look--”

“No!” Varda said, steadying herself against Yantilee's tail; the sound of that name had caused a violent uproar in her skull, and the aches in her head and back were nearly unbearable. “I'm not leaving this ship!”

“I've heard of Lizenne as well,” Yantilee said, glancing back at Varda. “A rogue Galra witch with mysterious aims, dubious purposes, and dangerous powers. How much of that is true is unknown to me, and I'm wary of Galra to begin with.”

“She's our Scary Space Aunt,” the yellow Paladin offered, “she and Modhri have been teaching us all kinds of cool things. They're great, if a little bossy, and the dragons really know their stuff, too. Come on, Pidge, they'll be able to straighten you out.”

Varda groaned and clawed at her helmet; her head was doing its best to fly to pieces. She could feel her Lion struggling to be heard through the roaring of the other voice in her head, which was insisting that these people were lying, they were impostors, that their own Lions were shoddy, slapped-together fakes, that they were trying to take her away from the only home and family that she knew. They would destroy her and everything she loved by inches, that voice was telling her, and must be disposed of or destroyed instantly. _No,_ Shechethra bellowed over the noise, these newcomers were her friends and family, they would help her, heal her, bring her back to her rightful place, they would return to her what was stolen, they would banish the evil that the witch had planted in her, they would stop the pain--

_No,_ the other voice proclaimed,  _the only cure for this pain is to wash it away with Paladin's blood._

The floorplates trembled as five Lions thundered defiance, below in the docking bay.

“No!” Varda cried, struggling not to collapse under the weight of so much fury. “Go away! I'm not leaving! Get in your Lions and go fight the Empire without me. I'll fight it here, on this ship, in my own way. Go! Go _now!”_

“That's clear enough,” Yantilee said firmly. “Leave, Paladins. I force no one to stay or to go, and she has chosen to stay.”

“Not without her!” the red Paladin retorted, “Look at her! Something's wrong—she's in pain! We've got people who can help, and you're throwing us out?”

“I've no proof of that, and she has told you to leave.” Yantilee replied immovably. “She was fine up until you lot arrived. She'll likely be fine again after you go.”

The blue Paladin took exception to this, his hand straying toward his bayard. “Yeah, right! How do we know that you haven't done a little brainwashing of your own on her?”

Yantilee hissed at that insult. “We have done no such thing,” she boomed, and the pirates tensed, eyes intent and weapons ready.

“Prove it!” the red one shouted, “You've been getting a lot of good use out of her, we've seen that much. How much persuading did it take to get her to give you the cloaking system, huh? Or save your hash by taking over those Galra ships, and a lot of others, I'll bet!”

“The previous captain was the one who forced her to--” Yantilee rumbled dangerously, neck feathers fluffing up.

“And even if he was the one who did it, you've still been exploiting her talents!” the Princess snapped. “I will not permit--”

Varda screamed and staggered forward, desperate to escape the agonizing cacophony both inside her head and out of it. Her legs buckled under her, however, and Zoallam lunged forward to catch her before she could fall and hurt herself. To the Paladins, this did not look like the action of a solicitous friend; to them, it looked like she was trying to come to them, only to be pounced upon by a dangerous, scary-looking criminal.

“Get away from her!” Keith yelled, and pulled his bayard, the others following his lead.

This got them exactly nowhere. There was a flash of yellow light, a noise that sounded like  _vworp!_ , and all four of them collapsed to the deck, unconscious. 

Varda let out a thin squeal. “Don't hurt them!”

Varis snorted and rested his stun cannon against his shoulder again. “You know better'n that, Miss. They's just laid out for the next two hours or so. They'll be up and about again, no problem, perky as anything after their nap.”

Yantilee gazed down at the heap of sleeping heroes with disgust. “That could have gone better. What idiot gives things like those great cats over to half-grown children?” she touched her belt-comm to contact the bridge. “Kezz, tell the others that the meeting didn't go well, and there may be worse aboard those two ships. Plan 2, and take no parting shots. We'll be able to patch things up better later on if we don't put holes in anyone on the way out.”

“ _Gotcha, Captain,”_ Kezz answered, and they felt the faint surge of movement a moment later.

“We're keeping these?” Zoallam said, lifting Varda gently into his arms.

“For now.” Yantilee said. “There are questions that still need asking and answering, and they're the ones with the bulk of the answers. Shuck 'em of their arms and armor, boys, and leave those with their Lions. These sprats can go into the brig for safekeeping. Oh, and separate them by gender. I don't want either hanky-panky or puppies. Doc, see to Varda. I don't think it's natural for steam to be coming out of her ears.”

“No, it is not,” Doc said, taking a tiny dart from his sleeve and applying it to the soft skin beneath Varda's jaw.

She heard him mutter something about how glad he was that he no longer had to worry about ethics committees just before blessed darkness and silence swallowed her up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like the corn fields to our UFOs. Crop circles can't happen without them. Keep us motivated to continue hovering in our mental outer space!


	15. Foul!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kokochan: I finally have a day off work! I'll get up early and post this chapter during ACTUAL DAYLIGHT! And then get stuff done!  
> Her stressed out brain: Nope. *oversleep and wake up at five*  
> Kokochan: Curse you, brain!!!

Chapter 15: Foul!

 

The only sound on the bridge of the Castle was Zaianne's muttered litany of exotic obscenities. The entire fleet had vanished and escaped without leaving a usable drive trace, and the Lions had gone along for the ride. Eventually, Coran nudged her elbow with a cautious finger. “Madame, while I respect and admire your astoundingly broad command of the vernacular, I will ask you to spare my sensibilities.”

She spat one last sizzling bit of invective, but gave it a rest. “'Think of the children', eh?”

He tugged at his mustache thoughtfully. “Well, I've always done my best to keep a certain childlike wonder alive in my heart. Keeps me young.”

Zaianne glared at the empty starscape before them.  _“Tcheh._ Youth has its drawbacks. Will I forever be telling bold young idiots to listen to my warnings, only to be ignored? Don't answer that, I'll have to spank you if you do. The Gods know that I owe Allura a swat across the rump. Hush me, will she? Lizenne, have we any options?”

“ _You've already listed quite a few, although not many of them were physically possible,”_ Lizenne sounded amused, although there was an edge to her voice that stated louder than words that more than one Paladin was liable to catch the rough edge of her tongue when they were located. _“Those pirates are going to be jumping all over the place for the rest of the day at least, so if the Castle can't detect the Lions, there will be no point in trying to scry for them.”_

There was a loud _gronk_ from the speakers that sounded like Tilla.

“ _Not that I'll be allowed to do an intensive search, anyway. Not with that Hoshinthra hanging around.”_ Lizenne's voice became distant for a moment, as if she'd turned away from the comm. _“Honestly, you two, I know enough to be careful around that monster, and I know better than to initiate a full trance before I'm cleared for it—oof!”_

There was a laugh from Modhri. _“The dragons don't believe her. Tilla's just knocked her down and is sitting on her, by the way. Once again, it seems that patience is our task and our burden. The Paladins are reasonably capable of taking care of themselves, after all.”_

Coran, who could actually see Zaianne's expression—they'd agreed to go audio-only on the _Chimera_ to avoid mishaps—felt moved to point out that not everybody shared his opinion. “Says you. Considering their current track record, we may have to intervene here and there.”

Modhri sighed. _“Indeed. We'll think of something.”_

 

Zardruss grunted as he settled the biggest Paladin down on the bench in one cell, and reflected that there was quite a lot of individual variation in Varda's species. She was such a little thing, tough as nails though she was, and brilliant with it, and this one could have made four of her. He wondered which one was the exception to the norm, although looking at the other three, it was possible that they both were.

“That the boy's pen, Zardruss?” Varis asked, patting the rump of one of the Paladins that were slung over his shoulders. “If so, I've another for you.”

Zardruss squinted at the indicated person, who happened to be the blue Paladin. “Might as well be. Um. Which ones are the girls, anyway?”

That wasn't an unreasonable question. With over three hundred alien races represented on the _Quandary_ right now, anyone could look, smell, and sound like anything and belong to any of at least seven different genders, and those were the ones that identified as whatever gender they'd been born with. Or in some cases, what time of month it was. Zardruss knew that Varda was female because Doc said that she was, but he had no idea of what a male of her kind looked like, assuming that her species had males, and no, the fact that they were dressed only in thin body sleeves at the moment did not help at all. He simply did not know what to look for.

Zardruss shrugged his massive shoulders and tipped the blue Paladin's chin up to get a look at the face. “Got me. They don't even smell like Varda, although the big one and this one smell sort of alike. Just drop him down here, he can keep the big guy company. That one with the white hair that was calling itself a princess is probably a girl.”

That was good enough for Varis, and he plopped down his burdens in the appropriate cells. “She don't smell like Varda, or those guys either. Sort of sweet. Might not be the same sort of critter. How 'bout that other one of yours?”

Zardruss turned his head and gave the red Paladin a good sniff. “Huh. This one smells different too. Sort of spicy and furry, which is silly since it's mostly hairless. Cute, though, like the Princess.”

Varis grunted. “Yeah, with that face? Looks a little like Varda. Girl, then. Just set her down gently and lock 'em in.”

Zardruss leaned his prisoner up against the white-haired one and stepped back, considering their captives. “Think we should collar 'em?”

Varis gestured a negative. “Nope. Varda's got Views on that kind of thing, and these are hers. Let her or the Captain make that decision. In the meantime--” he touched the wall switch that activated the forcebars. “That'll make sure they stay put. A good zap or two from those'll teach even a heroic sort to sit quiet. Job done.”

Zardruss nodded. “Yeah. Let's go and get lunch.”

 

The Paladins came awake slowly a couple of hours later, unharmed but feeling a little the worse for wear.

“Ugh...” Lance groaned groggily and pushed himself into a slightly more upright position. “My mouth tastes like... like backwards. What the heck happened, guys?”

“Umph?” Hunk grunted and peered around in confusion, while Keith and Allura made similar sounds in the neighboring cell. “Dunno. We were about to try to rescue Pidge, and then something hit me. Oh, man, we're in jail, and—oops—half naked, too.”

“Hey!” Lance said, protesting the basic unfairness of the universe. “I'm in the wrong cell, too. How come Keith gets to be half-naked with the Princess?”

“I'd be happy to trade,” Keith said, “Allura's not a morning person, and she's still strong enough to snap my neck. At least you can use Hunk as a pillow without risking serious injury.”

Allura was willing to admit to herself that there were mornings where she was not at her best. This was one of them, and she was not looking forward to facing Zaianne's displeasure in the future. “Shut up, you lot. We need to find a way to get out of here. What do we have to work with?”

“Our under-armor,” Lance observed, “The floor, which looks seamless. The walls, ditto. The ceiling, also ditto, and out of reach. The bars. Hunk?”

The bars were three inches thick, transparent yellow-orange, and set wide enough apart to get a hand through, but that was all. There were no visible locks, or doors for that matter. Hunk reached out and touched one experimentally, only to yelp and snatch his hand back when it bit him. “Electrified. Ow. Some sort of force field. Can't do anything about that, guys. Whatever's generating them is out of range, too. Sorry.”

Keith stared around at the bare surroundings. “No guards that we can trick into letting us go, either. I don't see any surveillance cameras, but that doesn't mean that there aren't any. We're just going to have to wait for something to happen.”

“Great,” Hunk groaned. “We didn't just get ourselves captured by pirates, but by smart pirates. What are we going to do now?”

Lance leaned back against the wall and laced his fingers together in his lap while he contemplated the Infinite. Then he smirked. “I Spy, with my little eye...”

“What?” Allura said, giving him a suspicious look.

“Seriously, Lance?” Keith asked.

Lance shrugged. “Can you think of anything better to do? Something that begins with 'B'.”

“Bars?” Hunk asked wearily.

“Yup. Your turn.”

 

Varda woke up in the sick bay again, although not in the healpod this time. She was lying on a cot in one corner with one of Doc's old lab coats draped over her. It smelled slightly of lemon. Despite the lingering ache in her back and head, she had to admit that this was an improvement. She heard the inevitable liquid glug of a bottle being upturned and the distinctive raw odor of horath. It was amazing how much of that stuff he could drink without any ill effects.

“Good morning,” he greeted her when she sat up. “Only an hour or two in the healpod was necessary this time. Keep it up, and you'll be down to mere bumps and bruises by the time you're eighty.”

She made a face at him and rubbed at her eyes. “Still a little sore,” she said blurrily.

“Overstimulated nerves,” Doc said, handing her a small pill. “Something grabbed hold of your pain centers and threw them into overdrive. I'm amazed that you lasted so long, actually, and that you aren't still screaming. An aetheric problem is my guess, which, alas, I know very little about and less about how to treat it. What I do know is that you've lost weight again. Get Ronok to feed you a good breakfast, then take that pill. It will suppress the pain centers in your brain for several hours, so do be careful not to injure yourself in the meantime, and load up on cookies. Assuming that the Nantileeri have left you any at all.”

Varda puffed an amused breath. “They really love them. What did the Captain do with the Paladins?”

Doc humphed and picked up a bottle of something blue, studying the label with a critical eye-cluster. “Them? They're still with us, disarmed and disarmored and detained down in the brig for the time being. Yantilee wanted to keep them around for a little while, so that you could question them further in a less stressful environment. I think that those two support ships were making her nervous. I know that your bad reaction to the Paladins upset her. You should have greeted your long-lost fellows with all joy, and yet you treated them as though they were inimical. As if their very presence caused you pain.”

“Nnnno,” Varda said, trying to remember exactly what happened, “there are two voices in my mind. One of them is Shechethra. You know about her already.”

“Your bond with the Lion,” Doc said, uncorking the bottle and taking a sip. “More aetherics.”

“Yeah. There's another one, though, and it really doesn't like the Paladins. They got into a shouting match, and that's what overloaded my mind.”

Doc set the bottle down carefully with a sigh. “I am not in possession of all of the facts. The annals of universal neuroscience and psychology have very mixed opinions where it comes to hearing voices. For many races, having several different personalities living in the same mind is not only normal, but expected. For others, it's a religious affair, either positive, negative, or neutral. On many worlds, it's a sign of insanity, and on others, there are even stranger explanations. I have absolutely no idea what it means for your kind. All that I know of your people has been gleaned from a single individual who may or may not be of the accepted norm. This is quite frustrating at times.”

Varda grimaced. “Try being that lone individual sometime. I don't even know what I am.” Her belly growled. “But whatever I am, I'm hungry. Thanks, Doc.”

Ronok met her with a plate of hash and eggs, which she devoured, and a packet of cookies that she had to keep Dwesk from stealing. The Nantileer was a little indignant about that; Ronok had put a padlock on the cookie bin recently that even the cleverest of the little thieves hadn't been able to pick. Ronok was also enormously unsympathetic to Nantileerish pouting on that subject.

“You've got enough bugs to eat,” he told the grouchy saurian sternly, “Hydroponics would be crawling with 'em if your clan's hatchlings weren't constantly on watch for escapees. You and your lot don't actually need the cookies, which Varda does! We go through mettic paste too fast as it is. I'll bake you all the cookies you want, Dwesk, but you'll have to raise the mettic beetles yourself. Good luck with that, by the way; the last three times I tried to start a colony of those, someone broke into the tank and cleaned them out. Any idea of who?”

Dwesk didn't dignify that with an answer, probably because she'd been among the culprits. Instead, she trailed along behind Varda, grumbling sourly about miserly bakers until she noticed that they were halfway to the brig. “Where you going, Varda?”

Varda, who was luxuriating in the wondrous sensation of not being in any pain at all at the moment, gestured down the hall. “I'm going to go and have a talk with those Paladins. There are some things that I need to know, and they're the only ones who have the answers.”

“Aha!” Dwesk said, perking up, “Varda has waited and waited and they are late. So late! And say rude things to Yantilee!”

Nantileeri, Varda had been told, just loved to question prisoners. There were few things that they enjoyed more than to pester and nag and bullyrag until their victim either begged for mercy or nearly killed himself laughing. They were surprisingly effective at interrogating a very wide selection of peoples, and the process had been described to her as like being nibbled to death by small birds.

“Let me do the talking, Dwesk. This isn't like the usual treasure hunts.” Varda sighed. “These people are supposed to be my family, and talking to them might bring back my memories. I'd kind of like to know who I really am.”

“We shall find out.” Dwesk said in a determined tone that would have had thirty-nine races whimpering in dread.

 

“I Spy, with my little eye, something that begins with... 'G'.” Keith said, mightily bored but playing along to keep himself from going mad.

“General theory of relativity?” Hunk said.

Lance grinned. “Nice one, Hunk!”

Keith stared at his friend. “How did you come up with that?”

Hunk smirked at him. “It's universal, isn't it? If it's everywhere, then it's right here in the room with us, so it counts. My turn. I Spy...”

“The universe is _still_ so, so screwed,” someone out in the hall sighed.

Allura looked up sharply; she'd been coping with the situation by trying to meditate, but Humans were enormously distracting creatures. Any new development at all was welcome. “Who's there? Show yourself!”

As if in response to her demand, something small, blue-green, and scaly bounced into the room. “Rude!” it piped accusingly, waggling an admonishing finger at them.

They blinked at it in confusion.

“Guys, there's a velociraptor in the room,” Hunk said.

“Very rude!” said the velociraptor.

“A talking velociraptor,” observed Keith.

“So very rude!” the tiny dinosaur snapped, baring sharp teeth at him.

“A talking velociraptor that sounds like Hunk's grandma,” Lance added.

“That is a Nantileer, and they are essential for running a clean ship,” Varda said, stepping into the room. “Her name is Dwesk and she's the matriarch of the _Quandary's_ clan, so be polite to her.”

Pidge had changed over the last several months, they saw. While she had grown no taller, she had muscled up, and she moved with a certain grace and poise that suggested intensive weapons training. Her hair was longer, her eyes were wary, and she had been running barefoot the whole time, but it was unmistakably Pidge.

“Oh, hi, Pidge... um... Varda. Sorry,” Hunk said. “Did you need something?”

Lance flicked him an exasperated glance. “And can we have our pants back now?”

“Absolutely not,” Varda replied, mentally blessing Doc for the pill he'd given her. She could feel her Lion and the other voice yelling for her attention, but they were doing so from miles and miles away, and her back didn't hurt at all. It was _wonderful._ “Your armor and bayards have been left in your Lions for later, and you should be glad that Yantilee intends to let you all go after we're done with you. Seriously, how could you be so stupid as to draw your weapons on the Captain?”

Allura glared at her teammates. “I will admit that we let our tempers get the better of us. We've been searching for so long, and have had so many disappointments...”

“And we sort of got off on the wrong foot right away,” Lance said glumly. “It didn't help that you freaked out and fell over like that, and I'm pretty sure that the big scary guy was going to eat you. Don't look at me like that, saving damsels in distress is standard hero training.”

Varda rubbed at her face with a sigh. “Zoallam wasn't going to hurt me. He's not even a pirate. Zoallam's on an artistic pilgrimage from his home planet and is one of the gentlest people I know. His deadliest tool is a carving knife with a blade less than an inch long.”

Keith stared at her. “A... pirate artist? With all those claws and fangs and spikes and tattoos?”

“Not a pirate. I did say. He says that there is incredible scope for drama and expression aboard our ship,” Varda smiled wryly. “He's probably sketching the Lions as we speak, since he won't get any other chance. Still, you've gone and screwed up, and you're staying in those cells until we get answers.”

“Rude!” Dwesk snapped again. “So rude to Varda! She waits and waits and waits and you make her worry so much, and now you are come and only make it worse! So very rude!”

“Well, sorry,” Hunk said. “You guys are hard to find.”

The Nantileer fixed him with a disapproving eye. _“Tch._ Varda, you ditch these guys, come and be part of my family. You marry my oldest son, make many lovely eggs.”

Varda had to giggle at that. “I'm a mammal, Dwesk, I can't lay eggs.”

Dwesk sniffed. “Can't all be perfect.”

“You're right, Lance, she does sound like Grandma. All she needs now is a cane and a Hawaiian shirt.”

“Rude!”

Seeing that this discussion was going precisely nowhere, Varda reached into her pocket and withdrew a flat, round object. The tell-tale aroma filled the air, and it was interesting to see both Dwesk's head and those of three of the Paladins swivel around to track it. She waved the cookie at her friend and then skimmed it through the air and down the hall like a frisbee; Dwesk immediately squeaked and shot off after it, which would guarantee some privacy. Nantileerish society functioned on barter and favor, and if Ronok was serious about cutting off their supply, that one cookie represented at least eight obligations owed or paid. At least until a colony of mettic beetles could be safely established, anyway.

“I smell peanut butter,” someone said behind her in a voice that trembled with emotion. “Where did you get peanut butter? We're like a zillion lightyears from the nearest peanut, and you've got peanut butter.”

She turned to see Hunk staring at her with huge dark eyes, as close to the bars as he could get without giving himself a shock, his expression full of longing. Instinctively, she clutched protectively at her packet. “It's mettic paste. Really not peanuts, but... um...”

“You'd better give him one, Pidge,” Lance said, although he was watching her hands intently as well. “If you don't, he'll cry. Every time someone makes Hunk cry, a fairy explodes, and we've only got one Keith.”

Hunk snorted, but Keith did explode in sudden fury, reaching an arm through the bars as though trying to throttle his teammate. Grinning, Lance leaned out of the way. Allura buried her face in her hands with a sigh. Varda blinked at them in confusion. “What's going on?”

Allura shot a disapproving look at Lance. “Insofar as I can tell, he's implying that Keith shows feminine behavior. I'm not sure what a 'fairy' is, either.”

“Wait, he's male?” Varda asked. “What's he doing in the girl's pen, then?”

“I'm a guy!” Keith protested loudly, glaring daggers at Lance, who was hooting with laughter.

Varda shook her head. “No way, you're too pretty to be a guy.”

“Oh, don't scowl at her like that, Mullet,” Lance gasped, “you'll ruin your girlish good looks with wrinkles if you do that.”

Keith growled, grabbing at him through the bars again. “Oh, you just come over here and let me rearrange your manly features for you, you jerk!”

“No way!” It's much funnier over here,” Lance jeered, leaning back against the wall.

Allura sighed and rested her elbows on her knees. “I cannot take them anywhere, I really can't.”

Varda felt sorry for the Princess all of a sudden. “And this was the best that the Lions could find?”

“Sadly, yes.” Allura replied.

“The universe is still screwed.”

“I'm beginning to agree.”

Varda considered the bickering pair for a moment, and then reached a conclusion. “Have you caught them kissing yet?”

That shut them up. Hunk grinned. “Not yet, although I've been tempted to lock them both in a closet until they come out of the closet. Give 'em time.”

“ _Hunk!”_ Keith said in a mixture of outrage and horror while Lance made inarticulate but very convincing gagging noises. “Me, and... and _that?_ Ugggh..!”

Hunk smirked and poked at his cellmate. “You're right. It is funnier over here.”

“Shut up, Hunk,” Keith and Lance chorused.

Varda sighed and withdrew a single cookie from her packet, which once again got the instant attention of three-quarters of her audience. “Enough. I have questions. You have answers. First person who gives me what I want gets a cookie. Any takers?”

Hunk's hand shot into the air. “Pick me! Pick me! All the answers you want, right here!”

“Hunk...” the others groaned.

“Good,” Varda said firmly, turning the cookie in her fingers suggestively before flipping it through the bars. “First question: who are you? I can't remember any of you, or anything else at all clearly from before Yantilee brought me onto the ship that first time.”

Hunk grabbed the cookie, but gave her a worried look before biting into it. “What, nothing? Um... okay. I'm Hunk and... oh, sweet mother of legumes, this is the real thing!” He caught her glare even through the glittering mists of peanut-butter bliss, and winced. “Sorry. It's been a long time. Allura already did the whole 'Paladins of Voltron' introduction thing. Yeah. I'm Hunk, that's Keith, he's Lance, and that's Allura, who really is the Princess of Altea. Very regal at times, don't cross her. Lance is a pretty good marksman and an okay pilot--”

“A really good pilot,” Lance broke in indignantly.

“Yeah, when Blue's flying,” Keith retorted in a snide tone. “There's a reason why Hunk kept puking during those sims, pal.”

“Oh, and like you're any better, fairy-boy?” Lance snarled.

“Lots better,” Keith flipped him a crude gesture. “And I don't get into stupid situations with every pretty girl I run across, either.”

It was Lance's turn to reach angrily through the bars for a grab at his teammate's throat while Keith made a show of ignoring these theatrics.

Hunk eventually nudged his cellmate again. “Yup, still funnier over here. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Keith's a really good swordsman and a pretty good leader, though he doesn't like that part much. He's half-Galra, too, and his mom's awesome.”

Varda squinted at Keith. “He doesn't look half-Galra.”

Hunk shrugged. “Yeah, we keep waiting for him to go purple and furry, but nothing's happened yet. It's sort of disappointing, really. As for me, I'm a really good engineer and mechanic. Lizenne says I'm a technomage on the hardware end of things. Also, I really like cooking, and I have got to get the recipe for these cookies. Do I get another if I answer more questions?”

“Maybe, if I like the answers.” Varda gave them a narrow look. “Next question. Who am I? Here, I'm First Mate Varda. Who am I to you?”

Keith leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “That's sort of a long story. In a way, this whole thing began with you. It all started when your father, brother, and Shiro--”

“Shiro?” Varda breathed. The only other person onboard who knew that name was Ronok, and only because she'd said it while weeping all over his front not so long ago.

“Yeah, Shiro,” Keith continued, “he was their pilot on a science mission to the moon of Kerberos, way out on the edge of our home solar system. They were kidnapped by a Galra patrol, although we didn't find that out until a year later. The disappearance was chalked up to pilot error, and all three were declared dead. You didn't fall for that, though, and started looking for them. You even broke into the Galaxy Garrison Academy and hacked into the Director's files.”

“That took guts. Commander Iverson's scary.” Hunk waved a thumbs-up at her. “Your real name's Katie Holt, but you turned yourself into Pidge Gunderson and joined the Academy, since the Director had banned you from the compound after he caught you going through his computer. You got assigned to our training team, although none of us were very good at it. We sucked at the sims. Lance couldn't keep his eyes front, I got motion sick, you're too short to reach the upper lockers, and Keith... well, he got expelled for disciplinary issues.”

“I had better things to do,” Keith grumbled, “and Corporal Mackowitz was a creep.”

“No argument there,” Lance said. “You're the smart one of the team, Pidge, super good at computers and things, and you can really twiddle a widget, although I'm going to want to talk to you about that sewing machine later. You were up on the Academy roof every night, trying to find out what happened to your Dad's ship. That's how we saw Shiro's pod come down. He'd escaped, and was trying to warn everybody about the Galra, and we had to rescue him before the brass vanished him for keeps.”

Varda listened in growing amazement to the long and convoluted tale the boys told her, with feelings that were strangely mixed. A lot of it sounded very familiar, and yet she could remember almost nothing of it. Throughout it all, she could feel Shechethra vouching for every word and adventure, while the other voice cried out  _lies, lies, lies_ in a distant but unceasing blare.

“--And then we had to bail,” Hunk finished up eventually. “Shiro was gone, Parzurak was coming back online, Allura was pooped out from transporting the thing and fighting Druids, and we'd given it all that we had. Lizenne joined up with us a little later on 'cause Keith's mom showed up at her place looking for him. That was good, 'cause Allura had to fly the black Lion, and Zaianne's the only other person on the team who can work a Teludav system. Then we started going after Quintessence stockpiles. Can I have another cookie now?”

Varda rubbed at her head, which was just starting to ache again; the voices were starting to come closer, and there were faint pangs all down her spine. Still, she tossed him another cookie, and passed a few more to the others to be fair. “One more question,” she said over the happy munching noises, fixing them all with a cold stare. _“Where were you?_ If we were such a tight team—a family—how did you lose me for six months like this? I was all alone out here!”

That was perhaps a little unfair; she, after all, had acquired her very own collection of space pirates. Nevertheless, all of the Paladins drooped at that accusation, looking ashamed of themselves.

“We've been looking for you for that entire time,” Allura said quietly. “As Hunk here mentioned, we had begun targeting Haggar's stockpiles of Quintessence because Zaianne had managed to steal a key to one of them. That little adventure was an easy win—perhaps too easy, for it made us overconfident, even though it allowed us to repay the Marmorans for their aid.”

Hunk grinned. “That was fun. We stole the whole mobile fort! I rebuilt the old spacedrive and you brought it to life. His name's Clarence, and he's currently zooming around the cosmos with a pack of space ninjas. We had to turn the Quintessence over to the dragons, though, and that was... weird.”

“Dragons...” Varda mused, trying to sift through memories that were largely not there. “I was a dragon once.”

“You were a dragon twice,” Keith said. “Once when we went on that mind trip to find Shiro, and again with Lizenne and Allura when you got kidnapped by Sendak. Since you guys wound up saving my life and turning Sendak into a small heap of ashes, I'd say that you were pretty good at it.”

“ _Kheshveg,”_ Varda whispered, then shook her head, trying to dispel the bubble of noise building between her ears. “That doesn't answer my question. Where were you?”

“As I was saying,” Allura replied with a sharp look in Keith's and Hunk's direction, “we had become overconfident. Kolanth, another Blade of Marmora, had brought us a second key, very nearly at the cost of his life. The stockpile it opened was far larger, and more heavily guarded. We did not find out how heavily until it was too late.”

Lance rubbed at his face, looking angry at himself. “We should have guessed. I mean, Haggar knew that someone had been stealing her keys, since a Druid had blown a hole in Kolanth before he could get away. She let us attack that fort, but she'd put in a big booby trap for us. She put a shield on the AI that you couldn't get through, and Lotor's whole fleet was hidden in the asteroids around it.”

“We were attacked from all sides,” Keith continued. “No warning. They threw everything but the kitchen sink at us, so thick and heavy that we couldn't form Voltron. All we could do was retreat or be destroyed. We nearly didn't make it out of there alive.”

“Haggar was there, aboard Lotor's flagship, I think,” Allura said gravely. “She fired a very large curse at us, just as we were entering the wormhole. She was trying to destroy you.”

“Me?” Varda said, suddenly chilled. All of those dreams...

Hunk nodded. “You. You're a technomage, and a really super one. The Empire relies really heavily on its tech. If you take that tech away from them, that leaves them in deep trouble. You're Public Enemy Number One right now, and Haggar wants you dead or Druid-ed... is that even a word? Never mind. She wants you out of the picture before you can get any stronger. She almost succeeded.”

“The curse hit your Lion first, but I tried to pull it off of you and it jumped over to mine,” Lance said quietly. “I've never felt anything hit me that bad before, not even the bomb that blew up the Castle's crystal. It went up the line of Lions and would've taken out the Castle, but Lizenne nearly killed herself stopping it. I saw your Lion drift out through the side of the wormhole. I couldn't help you. I couldn't even sit up straight. I've been feeling rotten about that for the last six months! First we couldn't find you because we were all too sick to fly, and you'd been dropped out halfway across the cosmos from anywhere. Zaianne nearly drove herself into a breakdown keeping us out of the Empire's clutches while we recovered, and Modhri and Coran had their hands full caring for us, and Kolanth! Poor Kolanth! He had to wade through waist-deep tabloids for months before he found any mention of you, so don't you diss his sacrifices, okay? A man can only take so much _'Bat-Baby Shacks Up With Mothman'_ before going mad, you know.”

Varda had to smile at that. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was there. “We had to name ourselves the 'Ghost Fleet' because of those.”

Lance's smile was equally faint, but just as honest. “The  _Blagblah Enquirer,_ right? Totally a load of garbage, but their headline guy is pretty good.”

“I can't tell you how relieved we all were when Kolanth finally found a picture of your Lion,” Hunk said, his voice very soft. “You were alive, and doing better than we were, and even having fun out here. It gave us hope, and made regaining our strength worth it. We never stopped searching for a second. You're our sister, and we don't leave our own to die out there, Pidge. We couldn't fly to your rescue, but we could feel you through the Lion-bond. We even shared your dreams, even though we couldn't help.”

Varda's breath hissed through her teeth, and she took an involuntary step forward. “My dreams... I was being hunted. Haggar was hunting me, and my pack was too far away.”

Keith nodded. “Through the tall grass. We knew you were out there, somewhere, but we could never come close enough. And that last bad one on that ghost ship--”

“Don't mention that ship,” Varda shuddered.

“Yeah, it had us in a panic, too.” Hunk made a face. “You handled it better than we did. I woke up terrified that one of those doom-moose was in the Castle, and looking for Lizenne and the others, and so did everyone else! Even Kolanth and Zaianne are scared of those things, and nothing rattles those guys. But we used them to find the _Quandary,_ and we've finally found you even with Lotor butting in all the time, and even locked up in here, it's great to see you again. I'd give you a hug, but I'd wind up electrifying both of us right now.”

Varda nodded, close to tears. Everything they had said had been true; she knew that even without Shechethra's encouragement. “These cells were made to make sure that prisoners stayed put.”

“I'll say. Whoever built this ship really put some thought into them.” Hunk shrugged. “Even I can't find anything to work with in here. Still--” he stuck a hand out through the bars. “We really missed you, and want you to come home soon.”

Varda reached out a hand to grasp his, but before they could touch, there was a sizzle and a flash of purple light. Hunk jerked back with a yell of surprise, and Varda cried out as well; searing pain had flashed up her arm and into the sore points in her head and spine, and a thundercrack inside her skull nearly blinded and deafened her. Senses reeling, she scrambled back several steps and clung, gasping, to the doorframe to stay upright.

“Ow!” Hunk complained, shaking his stinging fingers. “What the heck was that?”

Varda whimpered, shaking her head to clear it and trying to get the noise level in her head down to something bearable.

Hunk sniffed suspiciously at his hand, and jerked back in disgust. “Yech! That smells like Haggar. Wait, that's the curse she hit us with—you've still got part of it in you! That's why you can't remember us, and why being around us gives you a headache, right?”

“Maybe,” she grated, but she had recognized the tell-tale stink as well. “I'll want to--”

It was at that precise moment that the emergency alarms began to go off.  _“Battle stations, battle stations, all hands to battle stations, we're under attack!”_ Kezz's voice boomed over the PA system.  _“First Mate Varda, report to the bridge immediately—it's Princy Prancy-Pants again, and... holy Sparagine on stilts, those are big ships!”_

“That doesn't sound good,” Lance observed.

“ _Planet-busters!”_ Kezz shouted. _“Where the_ keshra _did Lotor get a pair of planet-busters? Varda, we need you up here_ NOW!”

Varda groaned. “I have to go! I'll talk to Yantilee about getting you out of there, but not right now. Just... just stay put, and I'll be back later!”

She turned and sprinted out of the brig. “Like we can go anywhere else!” Lance called after her.

“We were so close!” Hunk groaned miserably. “We were just about to get out of here, and I never got that recipe for those cookies. _Damn you, Lotor!”_

“Yeah, and there's no way we can get to the Lions and help fight him off, either,” Keith said, sitting back down with a thump. So, what do we do now?”

Lance sighed. “I Spy, with my little eye, something that begins with... 'F'.”

“That one's easy,” Hunk growled. _“FUUUUUUU--”_

 

Varda arrived on the bridge in a panting rush, her aches quite forgotten at the sight of the two giants on the central screens. They dwarfed even Lotor's flagship, they were larger even than the _Quandary,_ and when one of them let fly with its main gun, the flare of it nearly blinded her. Both Kezz and Haswick were wrestling with the controls and cursing the air blue, and Yantilee was shouting orders into the intraship comm.

“Take the fight to them, Tchak!” the Admiral barked. “The cloak'll do us no good this time—those things can fire randomly and wipe out entire fleets by accident, so let's join theirs. Crowd in close to their own ships for as long as the shields will hold, since I doubt that Lotor will be so willing to sacrifice his own men.”

The hideous, happy-banshee howl of the _Night Terror_ suddenly split the air, making the comms crackle and Yantilee laugh. “Or his own skin, for that matter. Follow that mad Hoshinthra, people, and fly right up their tailpipes.”

There was a crowded chatter from the other ships, some complaining, others roaring challenges, and others exhorting their fellows to give said mad Hoshinthra the best chance possible of taking that princely pelt. Yantilee glanced back at Varda as massed cannon fire streaked across the screens. “There you are. We'll need you to pick a good target this time, girl. As you can see, we've managed to upset the Prince once too often.”

“I don't know if I can take anything that'll make a dent in those!” Varda said, wincing as ion blasts bounced off of the _Quandary's_ shields.

“If not the planet-busters, then one of the destroyers, perhaps, and aim it at the flagship. Galra don't do well without a leader to follow. In the meantime, keep Osric on an even keel; I will not ask you for miracles.”

Varda threw herself into a copilot's seat and placed her hands on the controls, reaching for Osric's systems. The crafty old AI responded immediately, showing her everything that he had and placing it all in her hands. For a time, she was kept very busy regulating the flow of power to his shields and guns, smoothing out irregularities in his massive core, keeping an eye on the fighters and stabilizing the drive. Osric was mighty, but he was old, and he needed all the help she could give him.

In the meantime, Yantilee's tactics were working. The pirate ships were leaping from one enemy ship to the next, crowding in practically hull-to-hull with them to avoid being fired upon by the two huge planet-busters and hammering them with broadsides until the Galra ships' shields failed and their drive sections had been blown out. As Varda watched, several of the Fleet ships took a page from Shussshorim's book and used their cloaking in short, five-second bursts while they switched targets so that the enemy couldn't tell who their next victim would be. The _Quandary_ should be doing that too, she decided, and concealed them when the destroyer they'd been pounding to scrap blew its power core and it was time to move onto the next one.

Their advantage ended, however, when one of the great ships let fly with an actinic blast that blew not only a destroyer to slag, but the Fleet ship that was shadowing it. Haswick let out a wail of woe. “Phalnagur! We've lost the _Sosun's Prize!_ 'Ware all, the Prince is firing on his own fleet to get at us!”

“Mind those ships!” Yantilee boomed. “Watch the big guns, and stay out of range!”

“We won't be able to keep this up, Captain,” Kezz ground out, fingers dancing over the controls, “there are just too many of them, and those two planet-busters are a hazard. We'll have to leave, and soon. Varda, can you do anything?”

“I don't know!” she called back, fighting down a bad resonance tremor in the drive tubes as the _Quandary_ turned hard to port to avoid enemy fire. “Those things are too big to take damage from anything else out here, and their AI's are shielded really heavily. I'm not sure that I can break them!”

Another white flare momentarily blinded her, heralding the end of several more ships. Varda heard Kezz swallow hard. “Ye gods, that madman's serious. He's just toasted off three heavy cruisers and the _Nova Maiden._ We've lost Horpalk.”

Varda uttered a thin, shocked cry. She'd had friends among the engineering crew on that ship, and now they were gone forever. Her vision blurred with tears for a moment, and then white rage rose within her. She reached out for the nearer of the two planet-busters and found it to be just out of reach. _“Osric!”_ she hissed furiously, “Get me closer!”

The valiant ship responded, engines thundering as he surged forward, recklessly dodging fire from the dozens of heavy cruisers that guarded the two giants. Varda barely heard Kezz and Haswick yelling in surprise at control boards that no longer heard them; when next she reached for a planet-buster, she was well within range. The bone-jangling hum of its shielding bid fair to rattle her teeth right out of her head, and her response made Kezz clutch at his own ears. She could see her tone meshing with the great ship's like gears slamming together at speed. She saw the gap where the Spike of Hantis should go, but it was moving blindingly fast, and she hadn't the strength to produce a Spike that would do the trick. _“Help me!”_ she snarled, and then gasped as both the ship and all five Lions answered.

Hot power slammed through her as the Lions roared below; the shields flickered as Osric diverted a large portion of his own energy through her mind, and Varda used all of it to drop the metaphysical mother of all monkey wrenches into the system that was keeping her out of the planet-buster's AI. Sunk deep in concentration, she did not notice the ion blast from one of the destroyers that smashed through the weakened shield to impact heavily on Osric's flank, or the alarms that blared all around her; all of her attention was focused solely upon the greater enemy.

The enemy AI's shield didn't break. It exploded, and the great ship rocked visibly on its long axis as Varda sank her mental claws into the gibbering shipmind. _“You will destroy the other planet-buster,”_ she told it in a Voice of Doom, which was not to be disobeyed, _“you will destroy all other Galra ships within range, and then you will self-destruct. You will do this_ _ **Now.”**_

Helplessly, the stricken ship did as it was told. Varda had the satisfaction of seeing the second planet-buster being blown to atoms before she slid to the floor in a dead faint.

 

“All right, what was that?” Lance demanded, although he sounded rather shaken.

He wasn't alone in that; they had all felt the huge pulse of power from the Lions as clearly as they had felt the _Quandary's_ own movements. The huge ship had excellent inertial dampers, but they had felt every surge and dodge the old craft had made. Before any of them could reply, the ship jerked like a live thing, and they heard a distant explosion; alarms began to blare again, and someone was yelling something about a hull breach over the PA system. They heard the echoing thuds as the emergency hatches slammed shut, sealing off the damaged areas until they could be repaired.

“That may have been Pidge,” Allura said breathlessly, “drawing power from the Lions for some reason, possibly to take one of those planet-busters. And I think we've been hit.”

“Sure felt like it,” Hunk said, gripping reflexively at the bench as the deck beneath them lurched again. _“Quiznek._ The one time where we could've been really useful to these guys, proven our worth to them and everything, and we're stuck in here.”

“Yeah,” Keith said, “If this was a vid show or a movie or something, it would've worked out that way, but--”

“ _Doc!”_ a booming voice recognizable as the Captain's shouted over the PA, _“warm up that healpod—the First Mate did the impossible again and has flattened herself. Everyone else, be warned! Plan 3 is in effect, I repeat, Plan 3! That means you, too, Talssenemai! Voip and bail!”_

“First Mate... that's Pidge!” Hunk said, surging to his feet but unable to go anywhere. “She's hurt!”

The ship shivered again, and a peculiar, ghostly voice whispered out of the speakers, _“Giant, economy-sized vooooiiiip!”_

There was another, smaller lurch, and then everything went quiet. Lance gave his surroundings a suspicious look. “Oh, don't tell me that this ship is haunted, too.”

“ _It isn't,”_ the mysterious voice whispered, making him twitch.

“Who are you, then?” Allura asked.

“ _Osric. I am the ship.”_

Lance sighed. “Of course. After six months? I'd be surprised if Pidge hadn't messed with the local AI. She hasn't programmed you to mock me, has she?”

“ _Not intentionally,”_ Osric whispered with more than a hint of a snicker in his tone. _“Would you like some mockery? I'm sure that it would be well-deserved.”_

“And there's your answer right there,” Keith observed with a grin at Lance's disgusted expression. “Any chance of us getting out of here?”

“ _That's the Captain's decision, and the Captain is busy. So am I. You will be dealt with later. Varda is not seriously injured. Those Lions are amazing.”_

Hunk smiled. “Yeah, yeah, they are. Take good care of her, buddy.”

“ _I am.”_

Osric wasn't willing to speak to them beyond that, so all they could do was wait. Occasionally they felt the faint surge of a hyperspace jump or heard distant shouting or running footsteps. Once or twice, a team of pirates ran down the hall in too much of a hurry to listen to their calls. By and large, they were being ignored in favor of more important things, which was something that none of them were used to; otherwise, they might not have been so happy to see the one person aboard who was interested in them just now.

Keith heard those floor-shaking footsteps first, his Galra heritage lending him sharper hearing than the others. “Someone's coming, guys.”

After a few moments, they heard it too, and soon saw a large, rather ugly alien sidle in through the doors. He was twice as broad as Hunk and potbellied, his waxy blue skin hung in folds and was marked with faded orange stripes and old scars, and greasy quills lined a long neck that ended in a bone-plated head that resembled an angry camel's. Red eyes gazed appraisingly at them out of deep sockets, and he smelled of moldy cheddar. He certainly looked piratical, but not particularly trustworthy.

“Hi, there,” Hunk said uncertainly, “are you going to let us out?”

“Oh, yes,” the dubious character replied, fishing around in a pocket. “You've been cooped up in there long enough.”

“That's great!” Lance said. “What's been going on out there? We've heard a lot of alarms and things, but nobody's been willing to talk.”

The alien smiled grimly and pulled a square of heavy fabric and a small canister from his pocket. “This and that. Emergency repairs, damage control, a few rescues... and a bit of revenge.”

“Wait, what?” Keith asked, but before any of them could react, Plosser had clamped the fabric over his nose and mouth and popped the tab on the can of stupefactor.

The can erupted with a thick spray of bluish mist, which he played over the four surprised inmates with great thoroughness, waiting for two minutes after the coughing stopped and the air cleared before he uncovered his face. All four Paladins were standing quietly now, eyes blank and faces as slack as sleepwalkers, which was what they were now. He'd done his research, so he had, digging into Doc's files on the First Mate, and he knew that he had the best part of two days before any of these young fools would even start to come to their senses. For the time being, they were entirely compliant, utterly helpless, and completely under his control. One hand touched the wall switch, deactivating the bars; “Come!” he snapped, and they followed, tame as tissles.

All the way down to the docking bay, where Plosser had readied the best long-range shuttle; he'd made sure that the _Quandary_ would have to spend a little time in this particular patch of space by pulling a certain section of cable loose, which would give him enough time for a clean getaway. He had a plan, so he did, that would get him off of this tub clear and clean, with a tidy purse to live on until he found another berth. Young, healthy people of exotic origins always brought a pretty penny at the slave markets. Oh, he was aware of what they really were, and the huge bounty for their capture had been tempting. That bounty, however, had been offered by the Governor's Office, and was therefore a Galra bounty and no good whatsoever to the likes of him. Oh, no, they'd take the goods and Plosser too, he knew very well, and any bounty money to be had would vanish into the pockets of the Governor himself if one of his own aides didn't get to it first. Those greedy bastards were always on the lookout for methods of lining their own pockets with other peoples' currency. There were other markets for these pretty young things, and he knew all the best ones.

So thinking, he ordered them into the passenger seats and strapped them in—mustn't damage the merchandise—and then left the _Quandary_ with no one the wiser.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been leaving comments and kudos. They're the reason we keep writing, even when I end up sleeping for ten to fifteen hours straight. We look forward to each and every note sent our way.
> 
> Also. Please don't kill us.


	16. Frustrations and Serendipities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic hit over 100 kudos! Woo-HOO! Thank you to everyone who left one!

Chapter 16: Frustrations and Serendipities...

 

Varda came awake with bones that felt like they'd been cored out and filled with lead. She groaned and heard answering groans in a variety of voices, and a voice that said, “What have I told you about overdoing it, young lady?”

Varda smiled grimly as her more recent memories came back. “Not sorry.”

“You never are, that's the trouble,” Doc said sourly. “Fortunately, you succeeded in merely exhausting yourself and nothing worse this time, which was a pleasant surprise for once. Still and all, a dose of your medicine is necessary, so hold still...”

Varda tried to leap up from the table, but only succeeded in rolling off into a pair of strong arms.

“Not so fast, eh?” Doc chuckled, forcing her jaw open and pouring the foul-tasting liquid down her throat in one practiced movement. “You'll want to take it easy today, although I doubt that you'll have the opportunity. The _Quandary_ took some considerable damage during that fight, and every hand is needed to make repairs.”

Varda groaned again, steadying herself on the table. “How bad is it?”

Doc stepped back and slid the vial into the cleanser. “Quite serious. The shields lost significant power at one point, allowing one of those big destroyers to get a blast through. There's a hull breach that intersects three decks, and damage to the thrusters and the insystem drive that cannot be allowed to stand. A fair few of the broadside guns are down as well, and that could be fatal if we should meet with the Prince again. Yantilee has declared Plan 3; all ships must scatter until full repairs are made. We are currently heading for the Stronghold, where we will be able to dry-dock this poor old boat and make repairs without being bothered by pushy aristocrats. Until we're all fixed up, we're under strict comm silence; we must leave no trace of ourselves for the enemy to follow.”

Varda nodded. “How many did we lose?”

Doc vented a deep, whistling sigh. “Too many, as always. Horpalk and Phalnagur, along with their ships, crew, and almost all of their fighter pilots. Tchak's _Agent of Spare Change_ took severe damage and loss of life, along with Zorjesca's _Mop_ and Ketzewan's _Nova Maiden._ Just about the only ship that did not take more than a singe or two was the _Night Terror,_ of course. The Talssenemai is too canny a monster to be caught even by ill chance, but the Prince has managed to annoy her enormously. It is extraordinarily bad form to bring cannons to a gunfight, and to sacrifice one's own troops needlessly to them to destroy an enemy ship or two.”

“I hope she skins him alive and uses him as a doormat,” Varda growled. “How about our own crew?”

Doc waved a hand to one side, indicating his work area. A section of wall had been slid back to reveal a bank of healpods, all occupied, and numerous cots with patients resting in them. One of them gave her a little wave, and she recognized one of Maozuh's best stockers. She waved back.

“We got off very lightly,” Doc said calmly. “Yantilee was sensible enough to keep the fighters in their bays, and the damage-control systems aboard this ship are very good. We lost a few crewmen, alas, and as you can see we have some wounded, but we fared far better than others did.”

Varda went cold. “Who died?”

“Plenorsh, Ladrian, Tik, Ni'os, Osthra, and Volrannis.” Doc signed a salute to the dead. “Not people you knew well, I think, but they died nobly at their stations. Yantilee has put the bodies in cold storage until proper funerary rites may be performed. Our profession is not a safe one, Varda.”

She knew this, had helped deal with the aftermath of raids that hadn't gone as smoothly as they'd hoped, but her heart still ached for the loss. “We'll avenge them.”

“Have a care,” Doc warned, “vengeance has a nasty tendency to become recursive. I could use a little help here, if you don't mind. All of my usual assistants are off healing the ship.”

“I was hoping to go and have another talk with the Paladins,” Varda protested.

“They will keep,” Doc rebutted easily, “Dranthus's arm, however, will not if we don't change the dressing on that gash. Go and decontaminate, young lady, and I will fetch the necessary supplies.”

Varda spent the next hour or two helping Doc with his patients before making her escape down to the brig, where she paused in confusion just outside of the doors. It was silent, which was odd; something told her that that particular group was rarely quiet. When she saw the empty cells, she stood staring at them in shock. _How could they have gotten loose?_ She thought, and then, _Oh,_ tushwa, _there are four heroes loose onboard ship._ She slapped her belt-comm button to alert the bridge. “Yantilee, the Paladins have gotten out of their cells. Where are the Lions?”

“ _Still in the docking bay,”_ Yantilee replied, sounding tired and annoyed. _“On the other hand, one of the long-range shuttles is missing.”_

Varda turned and sprinted for the bridge, her own weariness forgotten. “They wouldn't have left without their Lions. Osric! Scan the ship for them!”

“ _No Paladins aboard,”_ Osric whispered a few minutes later as she arrived on the bridge and scrambled to a halt in front of the screens, breathing hard. _“All sections checked; no sign of them.”_

Varda sensed that he had more to say, and so did Yantilee; he was a good AI, but many of his previous captains had prohibited him from volunteering information, and some of that had stuck in his subroutines. Yantilee scowled and said, “Display all recorded activity in the brig starting from first shift this morning.”

Osric obligingly brought up the security vids on a side screen, showing the Paladins waking up, bickering amongst themselves, and then playing what appeared to be some sort of guessing game. Varda saw Dwesk and herself arrive and question them, and saw the hot spark between her palm and Hunk's when she'd tried to grasp his hand. Yantilee fast-forwarded through the next hour or so of the prisoners being bored, anxious, and shaken by the movements of the ship around them, and then resumed normal playback speed when a most unexpected person plodded into the room.

“Plosser,” Varda grated angrily. “What's he doing there? And his head's grown all the way back! I thought that you'd assigned someone to make sure that he stayed harmless, Yantilee.”

“I did,” Yantilee said in the quiet, even tone that meant that someone was about to catch hell. “Pormit. Ah, there. He's sprayed them down with stupefactor and taken them away.”

“Stupefactor?” Varda asked.

Yantilee nodded. “A powerful hypnotic chemical, works on most carbon-based peoples. Harmless, but it basically turns your mind off for a day or two. Very popular with slavers, for obvious reasons. Follow him, Osric.”

Osric obligingly showed them a series of vid segments that let them watch Plosser herd his captives down the halls to the docking bay, where he loaded them into the missing shuttle and carried them away. Yantilee noted the time stamp on the vid segment and growled. “Damn. That was hours ago, when we had to stop by Tilvasco so that the techs could reconnect some loose conduits. There are at least seven inhabited worlds within that shuttle's range over there, most of them with big slave markets. The rest are Galra-owned or -administered.”

Varda snarled a series of eyebrow-singeing swearwords that she'd learned when one of the dockjocks had dropped a burnt-out thrust regulator from one of the fighter craft on his foot. “Plosser! I'm going to kill him to pieces and then eat the pieces! We have to go after him!”

“We can't,” Yantilee's firm tone brought her up short. “Firstly, his kind is toxic to yours. Gnawing on him would kill you. Secondly, the ship's drive has taken too much damage. We could go back, but the coils would blow, leaving us drifting helpless, easy meat for that Prince or any other opportunist. Thirdly, your fellow Paladins are heroes, and soul-bonded to the Lions. If they run into any real trouble, those big cats will go to help them, right through the hull if they have to. I'll tell the dockjocks to leave the bay doors open for them when we get to the Stronghold, just in case. We can't do any more than that, not with the sorry shape that the drive's in right now.” Yantilee sighed. “Besides, they've those two big ships still looking for them. It's likely that those have ways of tracking those youngsters themselves. They'll have as good a chance as any.”

“But--” Varda protested.

Yantilee swept a lower hand down and out in a gesture of negation. “No buts. You can do the impossible, but I can't, nor can Osric. What we _can_ do is see if Pormit's got a reasonable excuse.”

She tapped a button on the nearby control board and said in her mildest voice, “Pormit to the bridge, please. Now.”

There was something extraordinarily ominous about that _“now”,_ and it only took a few minutes for Pormit to arrive, spouting a nervous stream along the lines of _“yes, Cap'n—sorry, Cap'n—busy, Cap'n—EEK!”_

That last squawk was because Yantilee had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and had lifted him clear off of the floor. Yantilee held him up so that he had an excellent view of the nearby screen, which was replaying the last few segments again. “See this, Pormit,” Yantilee said in a voice that was dangerously toneless. “You've left a duty unseen to.”

Pormit seemed to shrink within his warty hide, his four eyes focusing on Plosser's image. “Damn! I knew that I'd forgotten something. Well, we're well rid of him.”

Yantilee chuffed irritably. “Yes, though he's made off with loot that was not rightfully his. Care to explain yourself to the First Mate?”

The Elikonian lowered Pormit so that he could get a good look at Varda's expression, and he froze in terror at the killing rage he saw in her eyes. “Uh...” he said in a very small voice.

“You had one job,” Varda informed him.

Pormit struggled futilely against his Captain's grasp. “I've got lots of jobs. Looking after Plosser was just the most annoying one! It's been really crazy lately and I'm the best ship tech, so I've gotta help keep the fighters fighting properly and the wiring sorted out, and I just didn't have time to keep track of a half-wit scut! So he took some stuff. So what? We've got lots. It's not like he made off with the Lions or anything.”

This did not ease Varda's temper in the slightest. “That was my family he just stole, and is probably selling them to someone nasty as we speak. The only reason that I haven't killed you yet is that I don't want to make a mess all over this nice clean floor, and your mangy, stinking hide wouldn't match the décor, anyway. I will leave it to Yantilee to think up a proper punishment for you, because that's part of the Captain's duties. She is also a lot meaner than I am and doesn't have to play by a hero's rules. I'm going to go help Ronok with dinner, since I can't do a damned thing to rescue the people he stole, and won't be able to do anything until the ship can fly again, by which time they might all be dead or on their way to Haggar's lab. Goodbye, Pormit.”

Varda turned on her heel and stormed out of the bridge, leaving the poor fool quivering in Yantilee's grasp. “Um... permanent grease-trap duty?” he suggested.

“Not even close,” Yantilee said.

 

As always when she was upset, she gravitated to the kitchens where it was warm and safe and where she could always find a sympathetic ear. Her favorite sympathetic ear was in the middle of crimping pie crusts when she arrived, and that simple, domestic task raised images in the back of her mind of other beloved but forgotten people doing the same, along with the sharp sweet smell of apples, whatever those were. That only added one more layer of frustration to the day, and her howl of thwarted wrath nearly gave Ronok a heart attack and scared two of his helpers into diving under the worktable.

“Ye Gods, girl!” Ronok gasped, clutching at his chest. “If you're going to kill me, use a knife. It's quieter and won't curdle the pudding. What's gone wrong now?”

He turned to face her and collected an armful of upset teenager. From what he was able to glean from the rather garbled story that she spilled into his breast pocket, the universe was being its usual, massively inconvenient and unfair self. He held onto her until the storm passed, patting her back comfortingly and getting flour all over her shirt as a result, but he didn't think that she would mind.

“So much for Pormit,” he murmured eventually, once Varda was down to angry whimpers. “Yantilee will probably shove him into a stasis locker for safekeeping and then hand him in for the bounty the next time we make port. If we knock into Plosser again, he'll be for the same fate, only she'll feed him to the Galra. Or stake him out for the Gantarash. Whichever's handiest. I'm afraid that I can't offer anything better, love.”

“I know,” she said, wiping angrily at her face. “I hate feeling helpless. I hate not being able to help!”

Ronok sighed. “I know the feeling. I know it well, trust me on that. At least we're alive and able to feel frustrated about it, rather than being a spreading cloud of debris, or being the guests of honor at a mass execution. You've done all the big helping that you can manage for the time being. Now, it is time for small helps.”

She snorted, resting her head against his chest. “You're feeling philosophical today.”

“Maybe, but am I wrong?” Ronok stroked her hair away from her face. “You can help the repair teams, that's always welcome. You can help Maozuh catalog the parts being used so that she knows how much we'll need to restock later. You can fiddle around some more with that design for a cloaking system for the fighter craft. You can help Doc look after the wounded. You can help the Captain by being ready for anything. Best of all, you can help me.”

“Why is that the best?” Varda asked.

He smiled at her and reached for a nearby tool rack. “Because I will reward you first for it. We're having ghrembak stew tonight, and I need someone to tenderize the meat. Here's the hammer. We're also having pie for dessert, and you'll get first crack at the morlaberry ones if you stick around.”

She stared at him, mouth watering already at the thought of her favorite pastries. “Where did you get morlaberries?”

“Fresh from Hydroponics, naturally. Some of Dwesk's bug collection are pollinators, and morlaberries can be eaten safely by most of the crew. _Of course_ I've got a few vines growing in there. If you thought that the freeze-dried ones were good, you have not tasted true luxury.” He pressed the hammer into her hands. “Go earn that treat, girl. It'll make you feel better and will put you properly in the mood for pie.”

 

It surprised no one that the stew meat was very tender that night. The enthusiastic pounding that she'd given it had not relieved her feelings fully, however, and she ate her dinner under an unexploded cloud of doom that not even Nasty was willing to risk penetrating. By that time, news of Pormit's failure and Plosser's theft had traveled all over the ship, so the crew let her have her space and all the morlaberry pie that she could eat. For the next two days, she worked like a demon to keep the _Quandary_ moving, and on the morning of the third, the Captain called her to the bridge to see something.

“Yes, Captain?” she said, coming up beside Yantilee and gazing curiously at the rather unprepossessing moon in the forward screens. It was one of dozens that orbited a medium-sized, stripy yellow gas giant, and was large and dense enough to maintain a reasonably thick atmosphere. It was lumpy, rather greenish, and looked as though it had been hit repeatedly with something very large in the distant past.

“Thought you might like to see this,” Yantilee said, waving a couple of hands at the moon. “The Stronghold. See the fortress on the northern hemisphere?”

Varda squinted at the screen. Sure enough, there was a structure down there that wasn't natural. It was quite large, but its high walls were battered and caked with greenish growths, most of its towers had been snapped off short, and there were definite signs that its original inhabitants had been forced to leave in a hurry. “It looks like a ruin.”

Yantilee nodded. “Technically, it is. One of the earlier Captains of this ship discovered it, and the following Captains have been refurbishing it bit by bit ever since. The thing was built thousands of years ago, and built well; most of the below-ground levels were still intact when old Captain Pellmebar discovered it, as were a lot of the life-support and defensive systems. Fort's AI was in bits and there's still some of them haunting the old memory banks, and there's this and that mechanism that we've never been able to get working. That's not the really impressive part, though. Watch.”

Yantilee touched a particular button on the control board that Varda had never seen in use. For a moment, it seemed that nothing had happened, and then dark lines appeared in the surface of the moon itself. As she watched in amazement, two gigantic sections of the moon's surface lifted and slid aside, revealing a gargantuan hollow space beneath. The Captain smiled at her pop-eyed and drop-jawed reaction. “If only you could see your face. The _Quandary_ fits right into that, and Osric himself hooks into the Fort's control center. Even those big lava tubes—see 'em?—match up with the docking and fighter bays, so the small ships can get in and out without us having to open up the big doors. We'll be well-hidden here, and well-defended while we fix what's broken.”

Varda swallowed hard, but the prospect of being able to get some real work done raised her spirits enormously. “And then we'll rescue my family,” she said; not a question, but a statement.

Yantilee nodded. “We owe you that much, and there are folks I know in that area that make it their business to notice unusual things. They'll be found. Take us in, Kezz.”

“Yes, Captain,” Kezz replied cheerfully, and directed the _Quandary_ with care and grace into this most unusual of hiding places.

“Atmosphere's breathable, too, by the way, although you might not want to,” Haswick said conversationally. “The greenery's all algae and cyanobacteria down there, so it smells like the bottom of a pond.”

Varda shrugged. “Rh'attz was caught hanging up his socks in the vents again. Pond muck would be an improvement.”

Kezz chuckled. “I hear that. All right, we're all tucked in. Time to close things up.”

The main doors slid smoothly closed, leaving nothing to suggest on the outside what might be lurking below. Haswick's many hands danced over the controls, matching up hatches and allowing Osric access to the Fort's main computer banks, and then shutting down the drive with a long sigh. “That's that, then. I'll just tell the ship techs to get to work on the big repairs. How 'bout you go and show Varda around upstairs, Yantilee?”

“I can do that,” Yantilee said, extending a hand out towards Varda. “Want to come see a museum piece, girl?”

“Okay,” Varda said, taking that proffered hand.

 

Elsewhere in the Sector, Plosser was celebrating a successful vengeance. He'd sold off his live cargo handily enough, each one to a different market to make them more difficult to track, and each for enough cash to keep him comfortable for years. The sale of that Altean girl alone had been particularly good, for Alteans, especially pretty ones, were very rare in the outside universe these days. Plosser had felt the need for a small indulgence after months of being kept as a near-mindless scut in the scuppers of the ship where he had once been captain, and so had docked his shuttle in one of his favorite ports. Good old Muntri's Haven, a major crossroads in the smuggler's routes, where one could obtain absolutely anything if one had the wits to find it and money to spend. His wits had led him through circuitous routes to a tavern run by one of his old friends, who had been glad enough to see a familiar face to supply him with a choice selection of genuine Juskoran drinkables and a huge bowl of first-quality squails. Made ebullient by these viands and the good company of the proprietor, the old pirate naturally began telling his friend what he'd been up to of late. This attracted quite a crowd, for the Ghost Fleet, led by his own _Osric's Quandary,_ had been of great interest to everybody for months.

Among the avid listeners was a rather bland individual whom nobody ever paid much attention to. This was deliberate, since he belonged to a particular subsection of society that was wildly unpopular with just about everybody. He was a Palspur and a professional informant, and his race had allied themselves with the Galra long ages ago, when Zarkon was new to his throne and certain of his neighbors had been wise enough to back a winner. This particular fellow had enjoyed a long and comfortable career by watching and listening, and then selling his knowledge discreetly to those who were sure to take an interest. He was particularly good at it; five Governors were on his client list, along with other, more local authorities, and now he was listening to a half-drunk fool that would add an even more exalted personage to his patrons. The Palspur kept track of the wanted posters—oh, didn't he just—and was well-able to recognize tonight's braggart as the notorious Captain Plosser, who had intimate knowledge of a ship that a certain Prince was very interested in right now. He made his people's equivalent of a smile, paid for his own drink, and went to make a call.

 

Allura felt as though she were under water. Pale, cloudy water, like the hot springs that had been so popular among the elite back home on Altea, but cold and full of distant echoes. She knew, distantly, that she should be frightened, that she should be furious, but it was all so far away right now. None of the blurred, sliding images that her eyes presented her with made any sense or held any interest for her, and her other perceptions were just as numb or fuzzy. She was aware that she had been passed off by her original captor into the hands of another—the slightly rotten scent of the first had been replaced by the earthy odor of the second—and she was vaguely aware that she was being inspected by a third at the moment. Clawed purple fingers had grasped her jaw and her teeth were being examined, and this after those same hands had patted down her limbs and torso to check muscle tone and look for injury or illness. Some deep-buried part of her wanted to scream in outrage and smash that person to the floor, for one did not treat a royal princess as though she were livestock. At least, not on Altea. She remembered one of Coran's stories about some alien race or other whose monarchs really were state-owned livestock, quite powerless but retained by the government as a way of keeping their gods happy. No more brains than a clessit, Coran had said, but very highly-bred and quite literally blue-blooded. As always with Coran's tales, one could never be sure of how much of what he was saying was truth. These thoughts shimmered and faded away when something like a heavy necklace closed around her neck and her hands were drawn behind her back and secured. Allura knew that she should be very upset about that, and even more upset by the length of cable that had been attached to the collar, and more upset still by the fact that she'd finally realized that the man holding the leash was Galra, but she just couldn't work up the enthusiasm to do so. It was so quiet in her mind right now, so calm and cool, like being inside a cloud.

That cloud didn't dissipate until what seemed to be much later, when she came to the realization that she was sitting in a small force-screen cubicle while a couple of guards made coarse conversation just outside.

“--yeah, but I don't think she came with a manual,” one of them was saying, although there was a definite hint of a snicker in his voice. “Some of his girls, you need a flow chart, anyway. Ain't they s'posed to be shapeshifters, though?”

“Only a little,” the other one said with a greasy grin. “My neighbor's grandma had a male from there, once, and she put him through his paces, regular. They can't change much more than the cosmetic stuff, but they can be made to fit, and trained to please!”

Allura swallowed hard, not liking the sound of that at all. She liked it even less that she was still in her under-armor, bound and caged. She was also very thirsty, and there was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach that wasn't entirely born of apprehension. “Where am I?” she asked.

It wasn't much more than a whisper, but Galra had excellent hearing. The guards turned and leered at her, their yellow eyes lingering shamelessly on her most salient features. “Awake, are you? Finally,” one of them said. “Welcome to the harem of Governor Sarapvet, who's got a real taste for the rare ones. You'd better be worth what he paid for you, girl, 'cause there's ways of recouping costs that I don't think you'll like.”

“I dunno,” his companion smirked. “That Chelpaskan he let us at seemed to be enjoying it. The first few times, at least.”

“How dare you!” Allura hissed, struggling to free her arms and not having any luck. “I am not a slave!”

“Collar says different, girl,” the first one pointed out, “plus the receipt. Did they brand you? Gonna show us where?”

“That's enough, you two,” a woman's voice scolded from nearby, making the two guards flinch. “If I have to stay up all night with another hysterical female, it's coming out of your hide.”

“Sorry, Amalthi,” the second guard said, “a guy's gotta have some fun, y'know? Even with all the eye-candy, it's pretty dull around here.”

“And you're not allowed to so much as sniff at a lock of hair unless given the go-ahead, I know,” Amalthi chuckled richly. “Dull, oh yes! Could be worse, boys. You could be out there with the Prince, being chased about by the _Night Terror._ Now, _there's_ a demanding woman!”

Allura could not help but to stare at the newcomer as she undulated into view. She was a Simadhi Galra, tall and muscular and shockingly familiar, even in the gauzy, scandalously brief outfit of transparent veils and glinting beads that she was mostly not wearing. A pair of frost-furred hands lifted languidly and tickled the guards beneath their chins with elegantly-manicured and intricately-painted claws, making them quiver and gaze at her with unalloyed longing. Allura blushed right along with the two hapless males as those fingertips slid suggestively up through the fine fur along their cheekbones to tug gently on their ears.

“Boys,” the woman said in a sultry voice, “how about you just give me the keys and let me take it from here? That pretty little girl's all set to throw a five-star temper tantrum, and I've yet to meet a man who could weather that without wilting. This is women's work.”

“Okay,” the first one said in a shaking voice, groping awkwardly at a pocket. “And maybe you'll come visit us tonight?”

“Perhaps,” the woman said, tapping him lightly on the nose, _“if,_ of course, your naughty behavior hasn't made the new girl balky. His Excellency's been stuck in meetings all day and will want to relax. He may want the new girl, and won't be happy if she's too stressed to perform, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he said, laying the keys in her hand. “We'll be downstairs.”

She gave him a smile that made Allura blush even harder. “I always know where to find my favorite boys.”

Smiling a trifle foolishly, they headed off on their own errands, leaving Allura alone with her unlooked-for companion. It was a few moments before she found her voice, but when she did, it came out explosively. _“Helenva?!”_

The tall Simadhi motioned for silence, raising an elegant finger to skillfully-painted lips. “I don't go by that name here, girl. Call me Amalthi if you're feeling polite, but you're allowed to swear and scream at the moment, if you like. Most do, the first day. It's probably better if you do.”

“It would certainly help to relieve my feelings,” Allura admitted in a low voice. “Is this really a harem?”

“Oh, yes,” Helenva replied, deactivating the cubicle and helping her to her feet. “Sarapvet's got a keen interest in the privileges of his rank, if not the duties. Ah, good, you've muscled up nicely. You'll give me a challenge if we're asked to wrestle later. After you've had a wash and a meal, though. You smell like a mushroom garden.”

Allura sniffed at herself and wrinkled her nose. “No argument there. Can you at least get the cuffs off?”

“Not just yet. To get to the bathing chamber, we'll have to pass through the common room of the harem, and that's where most of the girls hang out. If you want to put on a show of defiance, you'll do it with your hands bound. They'll also want to hear your life story, so come up with a good fake—some of them will pass gossip to the guards in return for treats, and we don't want the Governor to know what he's really got here, now do we? You'll want to choose an alias as well.”

“He doesn't know?” Allura asked.

Helenva gestured a negative. “Not a bit of it. Most Galra don't even know what an Altean is, outside of a few boring old scholarly societies, much less what they look like. The times you spent in Imperial hands as a prisoner were brief and unpublicized, and it's not widely known that the black Lion has changed pilots. You're just another pretty girl to the old man. A very rare, very expensive pretty girl who isn't expected to react well to her new station in life... at least at first.”

Allura nodded agreeably. “'Liana' then. It was a common name on Altea, and may still be on Quolothis. All right. Should I burst into tears and go limp, or should I be fighting you every step of the way?”

Helenva gave her a fierce smile. “Either will do, but Sarapvet likes--” the smile turned into a sneer, “--girls with spirit. Go ahead and shriek. I'm going to be tossing you bodily into a warm bath either way.”

“That sounds heavenly,” Allura replied, and took a few deep breaths. “Ready?”

Helenva nodded. “Let me have it.”

It was quite a good performance, they agreed later. Allura's hellcat screech of pure fury was clearly audible even outside the harem's walls, and the sight of her draped over Helenva's shoulder and kicking wildly at everything certainly impressed the other girls. Her extensive vocabulary of invective—gleaned not only from her own culture but from listening to Keith's mother—had several of the guards taking notes until they made it to the bathing chamber, where the litany ended in a loud splash. There were more shrieks, bursts of hysterical weeping, the sharp sound of a righteous slap, a good deal of piteous whimpering, and a low-voiced, dangerous-sounding lecture from His Excellency's favorite woman that inspired their audience to keep their distance.

“That should do it,” Helenva murmured eventually, setting the float that she'd struck the water's surface with aside and unlocking the cuffs that held Allura's wrists. “Nice work. Just shinny out of that bodysuit, since it won't do you any good in the tub.”

Allura complied with a giggle and slipped into the rather beautiful pool of steaming water. “I was channeling one of my cousins, there. She was famous for her histrionics and could shatter a whole bank of duraglass windows with her voice alone. What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that,” Helenva passed her a sponge and a dish of sweet-scented soaps and tapped the gold collar at her own throat. “I'm doing the Order's work, of course, and have been ever since we left the Shells of Cantus. How is Lance doing, by the way?”

Allura smiled, soaping herself down with a sigh of pleasure. “He's fine, more or less. We've had a very difficult six months, I'm afraid, and the most recent events have been particularly frustrating. If I ever come within arm's reach of Lotor again, I won't stop at thumbnails.”

Helenva snorted in amusement and handed her a bottle of shampoo. “He has been a very naughty boy lately, and has made no friends among the Governors in this Sector. He's been using his rank and his father's name to acquire huge amounts of very expensive supplies without paying for them, he's been stealing the best warships and crews to make up for his own losses, and has even stolen two planet-busters from a garrison that he should not have been permitted access to—those craft do not deploy except at the Emperor's express orders. Then he lost both of them, and to a band of pirates, no less.”

Allura stared at her. She was aware that Pidge had done... something, but not what. “Taken?”

“Worse. If they'd just been taken, they might have been recovered later.” Helenva grinned and reached for a bucket. “They were destroyed. There are only a dozen or so of those craft in the entire Empire; they're just about indestructible and are fantastically expensive, and the boy's gone and lost two. His papa is not going to be pleased.”

Allura giggled wickedly, working the sweet-scented cleanser into her hair. “I should think not! But what are you doing here, Helenva? Stop trying to divert me.”

Helenva ran a hand through her own lavender-streaked silver hair and smiled. “Gathering information. Sarapvet's the senior Governor for this particular quadrant, and thus has access to a very great deal of vital data. I've been milking the old man for the best of it for months.”

Allura blushed, and then spluttered as Helenva used the bucket to rinse her hair. “You haven't been actually... I mean... um... this _is_ a harem. Those two guards...”

She trailed off in embarrassment, and Helenva laughed in such a way that made her blush even more hotly. “No. They just think that I have. The next time that you see Lizenne, thank her for me for those lessons in memory alteration, will you? They're incredibly useful. In any case, those two boys just want a good massage and a brushing. They're a furry pair, being of the original Galran Prime bloodstock, and their uniforms itch when they shed.”

Allura thought about Modhri, who had a particularly plushy coat of fur, and couldn't help but wonder if Lizenne ever helped him with his personal grooming. The mental images reinforced her blush, and she reflected glumly that she might need professional help to stop doing so. “I see. And the Governor?”

“Is an elderly, overweight Kedrekan with heart trouble and a taste for light bondage.” Helenva sighed and poured a dollop of conditioner onto Allura's hair. “I've been posing as a _tchang vadri—_ an infertile female. They're very rare, and common knowledge states that they're sensual, concerned exclusively with their own pleasures, and lack even a drop of magic. Since he thinks that I'm harmless, he lets me play the dominant partner. I rub his ears, he tells me everything, and then I alter his memories so that he forgets that he's told me any secrets and remembers instead that he's had the best night ever.”

Allura wasn't sure that she liked the sound of that. “That's... indecent.”

Helenva smirked. “We're in a harem, and you're saying that? I've actually been preserving his life by doing this. The way he eats and what he used to get up to with the other girls has been slowly killing him for years, and will kill him yet. His personal physician has quite given up on him, and he's a corrupt, greedy, unprincipled old _tuquohr_ in any case. Gods know that the other harem girls are grateful to me for getting him out of their hair. He's nearly outlived his usefulness.”

Allura rinsed the last of the conditioner out and gave Helenva a wary look. “You're going to assassinate him, aren't you?”

She nodded, completely unabashed. “He's most of the way there already, and completely without my help. It will be of entirely natural causes, and I intend to escape during the following confusion. I've made provision for the other girls as well—caches of hidden jewelry and funds, and I've shown them the best escape routes. Within fifteen minutes of his death, every female in this suite will have vanished into the wind. Would you like to come along?”

“I would be delighted.” Allura replied firmly.

 

Elsewhere, Hunk was drifting through the thickest, densest, pea-soup fog that he'd ever experienced. It seemed to be in his mind as well as all around him, clouding his thoughts and making it impossible for him to register more than one thing at a time. Shapes. Sounds. Sensations. Smells. None of those made sense, other than the persistent notion that he was lost in the fog, and getting more lost the further he walked into it. Trying to stop didn't do him any good, for something kept pulling him this way and that. He couldn't even get frustrated about that, since his feelings were all hanging in his mind like bedsheets that had been left out in the rain; sodden, cold, heavy, and threatening to mildew.

He was vaguely aware of words being shouted over his head, and someone pinching him, and of walking a long way. Then more loud shouting, and of being pushed down into a corner and left alone for a long while. It was cool and dim and quiet, and that was sort of nice, and he never noticed it when he fell asleep.

A sharp slap across the face woke him suddenly, and he would have yelled in surprise if someone hadn't held a glass to his lips. Whatever was in it tasted strange, but it was liquid, and Hunk was suddenly desperately thirsty. He drained the glass in a hurry, held it out, and received a refill. Weird-tasting though it was, it cleared his head amazingly. “Thanks, pal,” he said breathlessly, rubbing at his face.

“Don't thank me,” his companion said ruefully. “We're both in for a hard time of it.”

Hunk looked up curiously and found himself staring at a Galra. Not a very threatening one, he realized after a frozen moment. This one was young, probably around the same age he was, and was surprisingly short and slightly-built. Sort of a Pidge-equivalent, only without the burning determination and techno-wizardry. He also looked as though he'd been bullied by someone recently, and Hunk had an absurd urge to feed him a good dinner and then stick the bully with washing the dishes. Instead, he looked around at the huge, dim, empty room they were sitting in and asked, “Where am I?”

“Rociaport,” his odd companion replied, waving a hand at the universe in general. “Artisan's Street, in a stripped-out storefront that Grandmother says must become a profitable business within a very short period of time, or she'll ship me off to Orpaxus Military Academy in a livestock freighter—as cargo, not crew. You get to help. Congratulations.”

Hunk struggled to his feet, looming over the much shorter Galra, who didn't seem impressed by his height. “No. No, I've got to go find the others. Where are they?”

“Haven't a clue,” the Galra said, moving away and thumping down on an empty crate. “Just got caught, huh? That would explain the big dose of stupefactor you've spent most of the day sleeping off. How'd you wind up in a slaver's stock cage?”

“Huh? I... yeah.” Hunk took a deep breath; he wasn't any good at lying, so he told the truth. “We got kidnapped by pirates.”

The Galra nodded sagely. “It happens. Not as much as usual, not since the Ghost Fleet formed up and declared war on the Prince, but it happens. You can't leave, by the way. If you try, that collar will activate, and you really won't like that. I'm Medrok, by the way.”

Hunk grabbed at his neck, feeling the heavy circlet of metal. His more unusual senses detected a well-shielded bit of passive electronics that had been built specifically to go off zap if they were fiddled with in any way. He could get it off, but it would probably wind up stinging his ears off, and it wouldn't do any good; he had no way of getting off of this planet, and he didn't really want to find out what would happen to him if he got caught trying to escape. He was stuck, for the moment at least. “I'm Hunk. What happens if I ask you nicely to take this thing off?”

Medrok smiled grimly. “Let's see. I'd probably ignore the request, since Grandmother would skin me alive and sell what was left for pet food for wasting her money if I did. She bought you to do the heavy lifting that I can't manage. Also, she's got the key. Grandmother hasn't trusted me with the keys to anything important or valuable since one of my brothers framed me for the theft of some of her jewelry.”

“Huh,” Hunk said, looking around the empty cavern of the vacant building. “Not even the key to this place?”

“She gave me a duplicate, but she's got a master key that can lock me out—or in—at any time. Take it from me, Hunk, it doesn't pay to be born the runt of the clutch.” Medrok sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Do you know anything about electronics? The previous owners of this building got into an argument with the city inspectors, and they yanked absolutely everything out and piled it in a heap in the back lot to get even for being evicted.”

“Some,” Hunk said cautiously. “How long ago did that happen? This place looks like it's been abandoned for years.”

“It has been, and they weren't the only ones who thought that the back lot was a good place to dump broken machinery. I think that this shop even had a sign once, but it's currently under at least ten tons of junk.” Medrok shrugged and looked away, or he might have seen the glint in Hunk's eyes. “I really don't want to go to Orpaxus. The place has a bad reputation where it comes to small recruits, and Lotor stole all of their training ships and the entire undergraduate class a few days ago. He's got a bad reputation for wasting his troops, too, and he's getting chased around by a legendary monster right now. I'd always thought that Hoshinthra were a campfire story.”

“They're more like evil undead doom-moose,” Hunk said absently, scanning around the stripped walls and ceiling for electrical leads, and then noticed that Medrok was giving him a funny look. “Um... I've got a friend who saw one, once.”

“And lived? Lucky.” Medrok shook his head. “Either way, I'd rather not have to go and see for myself. Grandmother will probably sell you to the cadmium mines if I do wind up going, so we'd better come up with something.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said glumly. “Your Grandma sounds like a real terror. Mine's pretty fierce, but the worst I've ever seen her do was break a mugger's knees with her cane. So, what do the other shopkeepers on this street do for a living?”

“There's a big grocery store at the far end of the road,” Medrok said thoughtfully, counting merchants off on his fingers, “four apparel merchants, a combination medical clinic and pharmacy, two antique shops, six different grades of electronics store, a hardware store, a furniture warehouse, two construction agencies, three loan sharks, a travel agency, a recruiting station for the Military, two bars, three fancy restaurants and a fast-food joint.”

“No artisans?” Hunk asked.

Medrok smiled. “I think that one of the antique stores does repairs, but Mr. Talbesh is two years older than the planet and is thinking about retiring. I suppose that the cooks in the restaurants might count as artisans, and before you ask, I'm worse than useless in a kitchen. Grandmother's cook won't allow me in his domain under any circumstances. Not after what happened to the fried noodles.”

“Dare I ask?”

“They couldn't get them down off of the ceiling,” Medrok actually sounded a little proud of that. “They're still up there, as a matter of fact, and that happened when I was six.”

Hunk couldn't help but vent an amused snort. “That takes skill. What do you like to do?”

“Play games,” Medrok said wistfully. “Skill games, puzzle games, strategy games, board games, action games, all sorts, really. I'm actually good at them, so of course Grandmother put a stop to that when I finished school.”

Hunk gave him a measuring look, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “Games of chance?”

“Not those. Not the ones meant for gambling.” Medrok shook his head. “I beat my sister in a game of Dix-Par two years ago, and won two week's worth of her allowance fair and square. She got mad and put a hex on me that forces me to lose any game played for money. Grandmother won't remove it.”

“Okay, not for money. How about for tickets?” Hunk asked.

“Tickets?” Medrok asked blankly. “Tickets for what?”

Hunk grinned. “Arcade tickets. You exchange them for prizes.”

“What's an arcade?” Medrok asked.

Hunk wrapped a companionable arm around Medrok's shoulders. “More fun than is legal, probably. How 'bout you show me that junkheap, and I'll tell you all about skee-ball.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We just want to say it again, thank you to everyone that posted a comment or gave a kudos. It's awesome to see people enjoy our work, especially if they discovered this fic first and went back to read the others. That's just...seriously cool. Please keep dropping us a line with your thoughts, feelings, or just want to scream about Voltron with us.  
> Next chapter, you find out what happened to Keith and Lance. ^_^


	17. ...And A Heaping Helping Of Murphy's Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kokochan: Soooo...March 2nd. March 2nd... Yeah. *chains self to tv screen* Tell my workplace I'm temporarily dead.  
> Spanch: Oh, for the love of little green fish...

Chapter 17: ...And A Heaping Helping Of Murphy's Law

 

Keith struggled against the mists that clouded his mind and knew the frustration of anyone who had ever tried to punch a fogbank. Making it worse was that something in him knew that he could clear every bit of fog in the world away with a breath, but he didn't know _how._ It floated, like everything else right now, at a great distance away. His dual heritage loathed his current helplessness, and he raged against his passive body as it was passed from one stranger to another. From the cheesy-smelling blue one to the squat, feathery brown one, to the big, heavy-bodied one with two heads, and finally into the hands of a tall, gray, gargoyleish individual that looked to be wearing a toga. This one had examined him with stone-faced thoroughness before locking a heavy collar around his neck. That person had then had passed him off to another of the same species in a simpler toga, who had given him food and drink and a few minutes in a sanitary closet before bringing him into a huge, low-ceilinged room that was crowded with long rows of cages—most of which were occupied. He was backed into one of these and settled down on a padded bench, and fastened in; cuffs closed around his wrists and ankles, holding him in place with short force-cables while his nearest neighbors watched in wary silence. Apparently finished with him, the gargoyle locked the cage door and left him sitting there, unable even to protest this treatment. He didn't start to regain control of himself until at least a few hours later, and even then, his recovery was slow and clumsy, and it caused a reaction in the cage opposite from his that he didn't like.

His involuntary scratching of an itch on one knee caught the attention of something that looked like an oversized, dark-universe version of Oscar the Grouch. A pair of thick hands coated in shaggy, unkempt-looking black fur gripped the bars of its cage, and the creature bared crocodile teeth at him in what might or might not have been a smile.

“Boy...” it said in a voice like fresh tarmac, “boy... what is the name of your Death?”

This was not the sort of question that Keith wanted to hear while sitting chained up in what appeared to be a dungeon, especially not while waking up from a drug-induced stupor. “Huh?”

Something large and spotty stirred in the cage to his right, and a quartet of gleaming green eyes glinted in the dim air. “Just tell him the name of one of your death-gods, if your people have 'em,” it said in a bored voice. “If you don't, make something up. He'll be poking at you all day if you don't give him a name to call you by.”

“Um,” Keith said, rubbing at his eyes and trying to think. “We've got a bunch.”

“Just pick your favorite, then,” the spotty person said indifferently.

Who to choose? Human civilizations through the ages had worshiped dozens of them, and Zaianne had mentioned one or two from her own culture, although he knew nearly nothing about them. He'd had to write a report about one of the ancient Greek ones for Comparative Culture class in middle school, and remembered having a certain amount of fellow-feeling for the angry loner who had made both mortals and his fellow gods nervous. “Thanatos.”

The shaggy black thing showed his fangs again, tapping thick fingers on the bars musingly. “Thanatos. A good name. A very good name. You are now a votary and a part of that taker of mortal lives, boy, you are the Hand of the God and will bear his name. All who fall to your sword will be as rich offerings to your Master, surpassed only when you yourself are killed. I am Kayell and the Hand of Kayell, and I will end you quickly if we are made to face each other. I hope that you will do the same for me.”

Keith jerked back in horror, glancing nervously at the spotty one. “He's crazy, isn't he?”

The spotted person chuffed softly. “Oh, yes. Mad as a sack of Golrazi clams. Doesn't mean he's wrong, though. Or right, for that matter. Depends on who you ask. Everyone here is officially crazy, so the opinions tend to change a lot.”

Keith blinked and looked around at the long rows of cages. “This doesn't look like an asylum.”

“It's not,” his companion said, scratching at his shoulder with a long, seven-fingered hand. “It's the Temple Arena. The Bonirams—those gray fellows who wear bedsheets—don't have any patience at all for dangerous criminals. They figure that anyone who does violent things for fun and profit has been incurably infected with evil influences from one of their own death-deities, and the best way to dispose of that sort of thing without getting sin all over the place is to get them to destroy each other. The Galra officials don't mind, since it's a good way to get rid of their own nuisance population as well. Plus, it's fun to watch and stimulates the economy. Predators, right?”

“Right,” Keith replied uncertainly.

“Yeah. Don't bother trying anything with the guards, by the way. They're as solid as rock and will put you on the floor faster than you can blink. They're all dedicated monks who worship the good death-god, whose job it is to keep things like us contained. They won't listen to anything you say, since there's no profit in madman's babble. What did you do to get dumped here?”

Keith thought about that. “I'm part of a group that's trying to topple the Empire. You?”

There was a glimmer of large square teeth and a snort from his neighbor. “Resistance fighter. Hah. Good. Been a while since we've had one of those. Me, I'm an arsonist. Seventy-three buildings, two automated factories, and sixty-seven victims. Pretty damn good for this day and age.”

“Victims?” Keith said, aghast at the simple pride in his neighbor's voice. “You burned people to death?”

There was a mildly offended huff from above his head and an ugly snicker from Kayell's cage. “Oh, no,” Kayell chortled. “Lobosh-Kor-Tonalt is a merciful Death. His offerings were in the hands of the God well before he set light to them.”

“Credit me with some decency,” Lobosh-Kor-Tonalt said in a faintly hurt tone. “A tank or two of salpite gas takes Galra out of the equation in seconds. Too damn many Galra around, anyway. They were breeding, so I just thinned the population out a bit. Who's going to miss a few nests of those vermin? Not my kind, that's for sure. Not anybody's kind, not even the locals, who've been allied with them for ages. I'm just ahead of my time, is all. Sooner or later, Zarkon's going to be out of the picture for keeps, and then everybody'll be doing what I did. Fair's fair.”

Keith went cold inside, remembering Kolost, Sarell, and their cubs. The thought of either of these two monsters coming anywhere near them filled him with outrage. Lizenne had warned him about this sort of attitude, but it came as a shock to hear it confirmed in this way. “Maybe. So, we're supposed to fight each other to the death in the ring, huh?”

“Ideally,” Lobosh said, “or to the maiming or disabling. That's pretty much the same thing, since the monks aren't interested in keeping us alive past a certain point. If someone's hurt too badly to fight, they'll just give him a dose of something that'll take him out quietly. Try to make clean kills, all right? Nice and quick.”

Keith hissed. “What if someone refuses to fight?”

“They let him play with the nyarlogi. Those are easy.” Lobosh scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “The monks figure that if one of our lot doesn't want to fight, then they're repenting, and should be met with a cleaner sort of beast.”

“What are nyarlogi?” Keith asked suspiciously.

“Animals sacred to the good death-god,” Lobosh replied. “'Bout as big as me, maybe a little bigger. Long whip-tails, fast, scaly, big claws, poison fangs, and huge appetites. Sort of cute, really.”

Keith stared at him. “How are those supposed to be easy to deal with?”

Kayell burst out into dreadful laughter. “Boy, it takes no effort to be torn apart and devoured. People with no motivation whatsoever can do it with no trouble at all!”

Lobosh chortled richly. “No trouble at all. Now's the part where you ask if there's any way to escape.”

Keith glared at him. “There isn't, is there?”

“Nope. Can't get over the wall and into the audience. Auto-targeting laser cannons'll burn you down before you get there. Can't get out through the barracks here unless you're a monk or a Galra of royal blood—the doors are all blast shielding and the locks are coded to genetic signatures. No rescue attempts have ever been successful, either. Not on this world. Only way out is to die.”

Keith frowned. “But royal Galra are allowed through?”

Kayell hummed disapprovingly. “A few branches of Zarkon's Lineage live out here, well away from the cutthroat politics of the Center. They're allowed down here to inspect us, the better to place their bets, and sometimes to offer up their own fighters. _Tuh._ They cheapen the work of the Gods with insider trading. Fortunately, the monks do not permit them to drug, stimulate, or enhance any but their own offerings.”

Keith pulled angrily at the shackles holding him in place. They held, of course. He hadn't really expected anything else. Still, he refused to accept this and resolved to find a way out of here as soon as he could. Shiro had been in this same sort of situation for a year, and had not only survived, but had managed to escape. All right, yes, he'd had help, but not all that much help—all Ulaz had been able to give him was a head start, but he'd managed it even half-drugged and injured. Keith was whole, unharmed, alert, and very, very angry. There had to be a way.

 

Lance came awake with a faint moan. He'd been dreaming, one of those strange, endless wandering dreams where he was lost in an unfamiliar city that was full of mists and shadows. He felt stiff, like he really had been walking all night, and he really needed a drink. “Ungh,” he managed. “Guys? D'you think that those pirates will remember to hand out some lunch, or...”

He noticed that someone had left a bulb of water and what looked like a granola bar on a shelf next to him, and he was halfway through this snack before he realized that someone had cuffed his hands and put a collar around his neck. This was followed by the realization that he was no longer aboard the _Osric's Quandary,_ but strapped into the rear seat of some sort of small aircraft. He could see the pilot clearly from where he sat; that individual was a slender, elfin sort of person with silvery skin and silky dark hair, and when the pilot glanced up at a rear-view mirror affixed to the canopy, Lance found himself looking into a pair of large, catlike cobalt eyes. The smile was almost human.

“Ah, you're awake,” the pilot said in a pleasant contralto, “that's good. We're nearly there.”

“Nearly where?” Lance said, finishing off the snack bar; waste not, want not. “What happened?”

The pilot hummed. “Someone didn't like you much, young man. You were dosed with stupefactor to keep you quiet and compliant, and then took you to market and sold you. It's a fairly common occurrence, particularly in the case of grievances, inheritance disputes, altercations over a romantic partner, debts coming due, and class-five pranks.”

Lance blinked and shook the last of the fog out of his mind. “Wait, I've been _enslaved?”_

“Yes. You're actually quite lucky in your misfortunes,” the pilot replied. “Whoever wanted to be rid of you was aware of your intrinsic worth and sold you to a specialist dealer, who then contacted me. I procure rarities for royals, you see, and one of my best clients was instantly intrigued.”

Lance considered that. He liked the part about intrinsic worth. “Really? What sort of royal?”

The pilot smiled fondly. “Her Exquisitely Royal Highness, the Princess Moleni-Dwasilla-Loliquanna of Omorog. A delightful lady, and very popular with her subjects.”

Lance's hopes began to rise. “Is she beautiful?”

The pilot chuckled. “A poll was taken just two months ago, and the vast majority of the local population agreed that she was the most desirable female on the planet. She's held that distinction since she came of age, and young men compete furiously every year for the honor of joining her household. You're very lucky. Serving as one of her pleasure-pets is far preferable to being sold to a qualk-reed farmer.”

Better and better. Lance had been forced by circumstances beyond his control to give up on most of his childhood fantasies over the years; perhaps the universe was big enough to contain a place where at least some of his dreams could come true. “Is she nice to them?” he asked hopefully.

“Her Highness has never received any complaints, but she never keeps them for long. She's a tenderhearted sort and often frees them after hardly any time at all.” The pilot shrugged. “An expensive hobby, perhaps, but she can afford it, and it keeps me in business. Please be quiet now; the Autumn Palace's landing pad is a little small and landing properly requires concentration.”

Lance obligingly fell silent. The aircraft came down with only the slightest of bumps, and he allowed the pilot to attach a leash to his collar and lead him out without complaint. A real princess, he thought, an acclaimed beauty, who liked exotic men and treated them well! Rich, too, he thought, looking curiously around as he was led toward a pair of large, arching doors. The Palace was huge, and resembled a cluster of broad-stemmed mushrooms, and the landing pad was actually on the roof of one wing of the building. The central portion towered three stories higher, with wide, arched windows around the upper stories, and the grounds below were mostly water gardens, thick with flowers and graceful reeds.

They were met just inside by a well-dressed, butlerish gentleman of the same race as the pilot who looked Lance over with an appraising eye and a satisfied nod before turning to that worthy. “Ah, good to see you, _kirs_ Plodin. Her Highness has been bubbling over with eagerness to receive her newest addition. I trust you have his information?”

“Right here,” the pilot said, handing the butler a data chip.

This was examined with due care. “Interesting. Quite similar to Galran needs. He'll be simple enough to care for, at least.” The butler and the pilot shared a brief, faintly annoyed look, as though the necessity of supplying the needs of that race was a necessary but distasteful thing. “Hmmm. Ah, this is good. A normal body temperature of ninety-eight point six degrees. Her Ladyship will enjoy that! Mornings and evenings tend to be a bit chilly this time of year, and she does insist on fresh natural air at all times.”

Lance's secret hopes rose a little higher. That suggested a lady who liked cuddling and panoramic views, and who just possibly didn't wear much in the way of clothing. Sheer silk, maybe, and gems in all the right places?

The butler took a few steps forward, inspecting his Lady's newest purchase. “Hmmm, very nice. Mammalian, upright biped, a nice dexterous pair of hands, a fine physical specimen, too. Just as she had foreseen. She'll be thrilled. Well done, _kirs._ I'll take this young fellow and get him cleaned up and dressed. You'll want to speak to her Highness, I assume?”

“If I may,” Plodin replied politely. “I need to ask her if she'll be wanting me to keep an eye out for more of these.”

A pang of guilt shot through Lance's heart. He'd almost forgotten that Keith and the others were still out there somewhere, lost beyond his reach. He felt for them through his Lion-bond and found them all to be alive, but very far away. Allura felt like she was concentrating hard on learning something. Hunk was busy. Keith was very angry. Pidge was burning with a deep-set, smoldering fury, the lingering stink of Haggar's curse faint but evident. None of the Lions were upset at the moment. Maybe, if he pleased the Princess—his new Mistress, parts of him snickered—she might help him find them. At the moment, though, he could do nothing but play along.

He was given a very nice warm bath, although the soaps were curiously unscented, and found himself required to don a vest and a pair of loose-fitting trousers in some sort of soft fabric. His hands were freed, but the collar stayed put. Not out of necessity, oddly enough, but out of tradition. “Her Highness feels that there are ways that certain things should be done,” the butler told him matter-of-factly. “There are plenty of ways to ensure that her property doesn't wander off, many of them quite, quite invisible, but she insists that her special pets simply don't feel right about their captivity, however brief, without some obvious physical sign of it. Strange, but true. I asked one of her previous ones, and he agreed.”

“Huh,” Lance said, combing out his damp hair. “I was told that they didn't stay long. Any particular reason?”

The butler shrugged. “Generally because their friends come looking for them. There is usually a bit of drama, a tearful reunion or farewell, and sometimes a party. It's all very civilized, which baffles our local Governor, by the way. The fellow has no sense of humor at all.”

“A lot of Galra don't,” Lance agreed, putting down the comb. “All right, am I ready to meet Her Highness?”

“You seem to be. Come along.”

They went up by private lift to an airy formal hallway, tastefully decorated with motifs of water plants, flowers, and brightly-colored insects, and passed through a broad and stately arch into an enormous round room. The floor was a beautifully-tiled mosaic and the floral motif was carried through on the walls between the large, unglazed windows; a round oculus pierced the center of the domed ceiling, which had been painted with enormous representations of lotus-like blooms, focusing a wide beam of golden afternoon sunlight upon the silken divan in the center of the room. Upon that heavy-duty piece of expensive furniture reclined what could only be the Princess herself. She was adorned, as Lance's imagination had provided, in sheer silks and glittering gems; alas, his imagination hadn't considered everything, particularly in light of the largely aquatic theme of the gardens and decorations. Lance was absolutely certain that the universe itself was laughing itself sick at him right now, even as the butler bowed low before her august, if rather warty personage.

The Princess was a toad.

She was quite a large toad, fully six feet tall with her legs extended and easily as broad across the belly, and she bore a striking resemblance to the _anaxyrus americanus,_ the common American toad that had glared truculently at him from inside Mrs. Cooper's terrarium in the science lab in middle school. This one was a much more evolved and cheerful-looking example, adapted for upright locomotion and pattered beautifully in cream, charcoal, and burgundy, but still very much a toad. Lance couldn't help but recall the ancient fairy tale of the Frog Prince, and wondered when Fate would stop making fun of him already.

“There you are! Come, come here, dear boy, I've been waiting for you to show up for weeks! Tollins, dear heart, give him a push. I don't think that I was what he was expecting, poor thing.”

Lance couldn't help but stare, even as the butler gave him a light shove toward the divan. When a Human thinks of being addressed by an amphibian, he expects a gravelly or squeaky voice. He was not expecting a honey-sweet, melodious mezzo-soprano that sounded almost exactly like one of his favorite aunts, the one who had always had an extra cookie for a good boy. The Princess heaved her heavy body up into a sitting position and grasped his chin gently with a small, somewhat stubby, but still quite dexterous hand and stared into his eyes with her own large, black, gold-threaded ones. “Oh, my, yes,” she murmured softly. “Very much the thing, aren't you? Blue Lion, or I'm a tree-spinny, and that machine has selected for legendary this time. But young. So young, even for a mammal. What is your name, boy?”

“Lance,” he said, very surprised, although he liked the part about being legendary. “You know about me being a Paladin?”

“Yes,” she said simply, letting go of his face and leaning back, “one of the reasons for my rank and popularity is that I am a strong and reliable Oracle. A very rare talent, that, and I use it well. Most of the time I See things that affect only my own planet and people, but just occasionally I See something more. This time I Saw you, and moved to Act. Things always turn out better when I do. You aren't the only hero I've hosted. It's the price that I pay for my gifts.”

“Really?” Lance asked.

“I've made a study of it,” she replied. “In the course of a hero's career, he or she will have at least one instance of being captured and held as a bondservant, often as a pleasure-slave of some sort. It's necessary for developing one's character or learning something important. Some actively seek out that sort of situation for obvious reasons, although that's not always a good idea. I seem to be your first.”

Lance swallowed hard. Aside from a few stolen kisses here and there, he'd never gotten anywhere on the dating scene. Most young men hoped one day to go the whole distance with an enthusiastic partner, but he drew the line at amphibians. “I... uh... I haven't...”

She smiled and waved an admonitory finger at him. “You might be a little disappointed in that I'm not your type, dear--” she giggled, making Lance blush, “--but you will not be required to perform intimately with me. Procreation is a duty for my species, not something that is done for enjoyment. We aren't biologically compatible, anyway.”

Relief flooded him. “Good! That's good... uh, sorry, but... okay, so what will I be doing?”

Thankfully, the Princess seemed unconcerned with his fumbling speech. “As my official pleasure-slave, you will be providing pleasure, of course. This involves telling me stories, playing games, a little light fetching and carrying, amusing my children, and other such small tasks. The only body service you will be asked to perform will be to help me oil my skin after my morning swim—as you can see, I have difficulty in reaching my back—and to share your body heat in the cool hours, which will take no effort at all. This should keep you occupied until the others come to rescue you.”

“Will they? You've seen it?” Lance asked.

“There is not one single future in which they do not make the attempt,” the Princess stated firmly. “They need you, and not just because you pilot the blue Lion. You are their brother, and they need you as much as you need them. I can see the bonds you have formed with them, and bonds of that nature are not broken lightly. Tollins, please fetch this young fellow a chair, if you would be so kind. I want to hear how he wound up in his current predicament.”

“You can't just see it with your oracle powers?” Lance asked curiously as the butler bustled off to find a seat.

“No, dear, it doesn't work like that. I can See things happen, but I can't See more than a hint or two of what _makes_ them happen.” She huffed irritably. “It's terribly tedious that way. Ah, thank you, Tollins. Sit, sit, do, and tell me of your adventures! Don't embroider upon them too much, please, one of the side effects of oracular talent is that I can tell when someone is exaggerating a bit, and it makes me itch. You may call me Loliqua, by the way. Now speak! I haven't heard a proper adventuring tale in months.”

“Okay,” Lance said, unable to hold down a smile at her eager expression. “We'd found out that one of our allies could revive dead worlds if we could steal back the Quintessence that Haggar had stolen from them...”

She was an avid listener and an excellent audience, and Lance felt himself warming toward her as he went on with his tale. She was so _genuine,_ her emotions visible and honest, her great dark eyes so liquid and intelligent, and he couldn't bring himself to be annoyed with her when she stopped him to ask for details.

“The Blade of Marmora?” she exclaimed at one point, and he had to explain about Ulaz, and Keith's unusual parentage.

“Alteans?” she exclaimed again, and he had to explain about Coran, Allura, and the mice.

“Zampedran prairie dragons?” she demanded, sounding genuinely surprised, and he had to describe Tilla and Soluk and the Elders, which took some doing. This also meant that he had to describe his team's relationship with Lizenne and Modhri, and that startled the Toad Princess very much. “The _rogue witch?_ My goodness! You do keep strange company, my dear boy, and rightfully so. You must extend my invitation to that remarkable woman when next you see her—I must have her come by so that we may talk shop. Did she really summon a demon to burn the Emperor's favorite henchman?”

It was well after dark by the time that Loliqua ran out of questions, and he'd unbent enough by that time to sit next to her upon her couch, warding off the evening chill with his body heat. Toadly bodies, he'd discovered, were surprisingly soft and pleasant to lean upon. Her skin was dry, slightly pebbly in texture, and felt almost like good suede along the sides and belly. “Very good, young man,” she mused, stroking his hair thoughtfully. “Very, very good. You have given me much to think about and no mistake! Anything that confounds that evil creature at the heart of the Empire—and I don't mean the Emperor himself, he's probably little more than a tool at this stage—is a good thing. We shall continue this discussion later, for no doubt my cook is weeping into his hat, we have left dinner so late! Before you ask, no, your portion will not be full of bugs. We know how to properly feed guests around here. Tollins, do extend my apologies to poor Sanloss, and ask him to bring his excellent works of culinary art to the lesser dining room, please. Lance, you'll want to go with him and help with the larger platters.”

“Will there be cookies?” Lance said automatically, just as he'd asked his aunt a thousand times before, when she had asked him to run errands for her.

“There are always cookies for helpful young men,” Loliqua replied, even as his own aunt had replied, and he couldn't help but love her a little for that.

 

“My Lady, no,” Modhri said, his manner unusually firm. It was rare for him to contradict his mate, but he wasn't above doing so if she was up to something especially foolhardy. “You have not been cleared for that yet.”

Lizenne growled. It had been more than a week now, and there had been no sign of either the Ghost Fleet or the Lions. The Castle couldn't find the Lions either, which was worrying, and Lizenne was of a mind to scry for the Paladins themselves. She had worked with pirate crews before, and knew very well what tactics might serve to separate a person from a valuable spacecraft; there was no guarantee that Allura and the others were still on the _Quandary._

Unfortunately, the _Quandary_ and its cohorts had gone to ground, and for good and sufficient reason. According to the newsnets, Lotor had tried fighting the pirates with a pair of ships normally intended for breaking whole planets down to gravel, and the fight had ended in a draw with both parties badly damaged and with heavy losses on all sides. Lotor and his remaining captains had limped back to a garrison outpost to regroup; the pirates had simply vanished. Oh, one or two of them were rumored to have popped up briefly here and there, and all of the tabloids were milking the antics of the _Night Terror_ for everything they were worth, but otherwise, nothing. The fact that the Paladins had not returned or even sent a message was worrying; very little could stop the Lions for long. Kolanth was starting to worry again, and Zaianne was having trouble sleeping. Coran had gone glum and quiet, and that was a very bad sign. The only ones who didn't seem terribly concerned were Tilla and Soluk, who were keeping an uncomfortably close eye upon Lizenne. She was apparently at a dangerous stage in her recovery; her physical health was quite restored, but she was not allowed to overexert herself magically. One or two small spells here and there were all right, but anything bigger than that was forbidden, and Lizenne was chafing visibly at these restrictions. Not that Modhri couldn't relate. His own instincts were screaming at him to rush to the rescue of his nieces and nephews, but he had learned long ago that if the dragons weren't upset or impatient, then there was no point in him being upset or impatient, either. He had the feeling that they were waiting for something, and he trusted in their wisdom.

Lizenne, of course, was not so sanguine a character. She was arrogant and willful, and hated being forced to stand and wait while every fiber in her being was urging her to action. If only scrying had been among Zaianne's talents! Alas, she hadn't the training or the power for that difficult discipline, and so Modhri was left to deal with the fallout.

This was manifest in the dirty look that she was giving him right now. “You will not help me with this?” Lizenne asked coldly.

He winced at her frigid tone, but gestured a negative. “No. I remember the last time that you crossed the dragons, and I'm not so well-healed that I'm willing to face their displeasure. They've warned you off of the larger magics for a reason, Lizenne. As light a look as you might skim over nearby space, this counts. At least ask them first.”

“No point. As you've already mentioned, they'll refuse to allow it.” She turned and glared at the stars in the bridge's screens, and a sly smile spread itself over her proud features. “Hah. So I won't bother. We've got an Altean who has spent most of his life training young fools in basic survival, a quartet of natural scavengers, and two professional black-ops agents aboard, and I've still got Pidge's glasses. I promise that I won't strain myself, Modhri. All I want is their location and to know whether they're still alive. With a proper focus, that's quite easy.”

Modhri sighed, knowing that there was no way he could stop her. Even if he tied her up and locked her in a closet, she'd find some way to get what she wanted... and then she'd probably have his ears for getting in the way. “On your own head be it,” he replied sternly, “but if you do wind up hurting yourself, I shall greet you every day until you are recovered, morning and evening, with the words _'I told you so',_ even if it takes months.”

She laughed. “And I will deserve it! Fine. Go and establish your alibi somewhere else, sir. I've preparations to make.”

Ordinarily, Lizenne might have waited until Tilla and Soluk were napping, but the dragons seemed to be aware that something was up and endeavored to have at least one of the pair with her at all times. This, of course, inspired her to elude them wherever possible. Kolanth, Coran, Zaianne, and the mice were perfectly willing to help the witch in her aims and set about obtaining personal items from the Paladins' rooms, which wasn't quite as easy as one would think. Each of those young heroes had the standard security features on their private quarters, and one or two of them had added a little something extra. As a result, Galra, Altean, mice, and dragons alike were given an excellent opportunity to put a little polish on skills that they hadn't used in a while, and had a great deal of fun doing so; Modhri merely observed all of this sneaking about with a certain amount of amusement and then went to run maintenance checks on the _Chimera's_ core.

While he was off doing that time-consuming but necessary chore, the others reconvened in one of the Castle's many private sitting rooms, one that hadn't been used since the Castle was a functioning seat of government and thus unknown to the dragons. Lizenne sat down on the floor and placed Pidge's glasses down before her, and then smiled up at her co-conspirators. “Any success?”

The mice squeaked triumphantly, placing before her a strip of yellow fabric—one of Hunk's headbands.

Coran dropped down beside her and added one of Allura's diadems. “Not a problem. Every man should know how to pick the locks on a private boudoir.”

“Don't let the Princess hear that, Coran,” Zaianne cautioned him, “she'll have your _hapleks_ for certain. Possibly framed.”

“ _Madame!”_ Coran protested. “Surely she won't! 'Tisn't ladylike to mutilate one's advisers, you know.”

“It is where I come from, if they start taking liberties,” Zaianne smirked dangerously at him and laid Keith's jacket down next to the other items. “This should be useful, Lizenne. He rarely took it off.”

“It should, considering how much he values it,” Lizenne replied. “Having you here will help as well. Any luck, Kolanth?”

Kolanth nodded and dropped one of Lance's blue Lion slippers on the pile. “I'm going to have to talk to both Lance and Pidge about that sewing machine. He's got it tethered to his bedframe, and it leaped out from behind the dresser and tried to staple me to the wall. We might have a use for a few of those things in the training halls, actually, in case we encounter more technomages in the future.”

“That's not likely, you know,” Coran said dubiously. “It's an awfully rare talent.”

Kolanth smiled. “I'm thinking ahead. One day Pidge will choose a good man, and Hunk might find himself chosen by a woman of talent. They may choose to breed with each other. Their descendants may well manifest that trait.”

The others paused, picturing a clutch of toddlers who might re-engineer their playpens three times before lunch. “Frightening thought,” Coran observed, “but one for later. Is this enough, Lizenne?”

“It should be,” Lizenne replied, arranging the items neatly. “Will you all lend me strength? This is a very basic search, and very light, but it will still consume a goodly amount of energy. As much as I hate to admit it, my own reserves are still less than optimal.”

“Of course,” Zaianne said. “Find my son, Lizenne.”

The others agreed just as readily, although Lizenne disqualified the mice. “No,” she told them. “This is too dangerous for people your size. I don't want to overload your hearts or nervous systems. Do us the favor of keeping watch instead—Tilla and Soluk have ways of homing in on magic in action, and I would prefer to have some warning if they find us before we're finished.”

Flattered at being called people, the mice saluted her with staunch squeaks and scampered out of the room. Lizenne smiled. “All right. Clear your minds, people, and relax. This may feel strange, but do not fight it. Sit quiet and listen.”

She began to chant quietly, her words coming in a smooth, rhythmic murmur that seemed to hang golden on the air for just a second after each word was spoken. They soon felt a slight drain upon their strength, not unlike going on a hike or helping to clean and reorganize a cluttered storeroom; not too wearing, but they knew that they would want a good lunch and some rest afterward. The air above the items on the floor shimmered slightly, and then thin golden lines spun together to reveal the owners of each object. Allura was the clearest, the faint sketch of her on the air flushing with barely-perceptible color. She seemed to be dancing, and the sharpening image revealed details that made Coran choke in outrage; she was wearing a silver collar around her neck, a scandalously brief garment that was barely more than a few swatches of fine silk, a modicum of jewelry, and a certain amount of wishful thinking. Hunk wasn't quite as clear, and it looked as though he was armpit-deep in machinery. Keith was more indistinct still, and he looked fighting-mad. Lance was too blurry to make out any real details, and Pidge was barely visible at all. Lizenne frowned, and her chanting gained a little more speed as she tried for greater detail. Lance was just starting to come into focus when the largest mouse came streaking into the room, squeaking loudly. Lizenne gasped and canceled the spell, but it was already too late—Tilla galloped into the room right on the mouse's tail, and with remarkable dispatch had knocked both Lizenne and Coran flat and had laid down on top of them, pinning them to the floor. Soluk, alas, was right behind her, and followed her example with Zaianne and Kolanth.

“ _Gronk!”_ Tilla declared in tones of bitter disapproval, echoed loudly by her mate. _“Gronk!”_

They both burst into long, loud, crackling diatribes that spoke louder than intelligible words of just how rotten a patient Lizenne was, and how naughty of the others to indulge, encourage, aid and abet her foolish actions, and of how very disappointed the dragons were in all of the silly mammals in the room. This took some time. Time enough for Modhri to finish the checks on the _Chimera's_ drive, come back over to the Castle and find it suspiciously quiet, locate them in the Castle's directory, and amble gently in that direction. He did not hurry; even so, Tilla was still going strong when he arrived.

“Oh, dear,” he said, observing the sight of his four companions flattened beneath the dragons' chests. “My Lady, were you able to find anything?”

“Ooophmrf!” Lizenne managed, shoving ineffectually at Tilla's forearm.

He smiled unsympathetically. “Ah. I'll ask again later, shall I? I'll just go and make some tanrook buns, I think, and brew some tea. Oh, and Lizenne?”

Lizenne growled, knowing what was coming.

“I told you so,” Modhri informed her, and left the room to a chorus of muffled threats and rude noises.

 

Some might say that Modhri had the wisdom of his namesake. The mention of tanrook buns had given the dragons something other than Lizenne's transgressions to consider, and like all predators, the relative fullness of their bellies was of great concern. Especially when it involved things that tasted like bacon. Both of them lifted themselves off of their captives with only a few more irritated _gronks_ and headed down to the kitchen, closely followed by the others. With the calm efficiency of a truly superior man, Modhri piled great drifts of tasty snacks before all comers and kept their mugs topped up with fragrant tea, remaining silent until the worst of everybody's appetite had been eased.

“All right, then,” he murmured eventually, having judged that the dragons were too full to voice any more complaints, “how did it go?”

“Reasonably well,” Lizenne replied with a dirty look in Tilla's direction. “They're alive, and for the moment they are well enough. I was right, however—they've been scattered over a fairly large area, and have probably been sold as slaves. I didn't have time to get much in the way of fine detail. Allura's the closest, and on a planet that I've visited before. Sowirra—quite a rich Galra-owned colony, and the seat of the Sector's senior Governor. From what I could glean, she's now the newest addition to that letch's harem.”

Coran thumped a fist on the table. “We have to get her out of there! Has she been--”

Lizenne waved a hand reassuringly. “I don't think so. I'd be quite surprised if she had, actually. Governor Sarapvet still holds that office, and he was old when I was still a wild and untamed youth. She wasn't in distress. I got the impression that she was enjoying herself, as a matter of fact. Was she a fan of trashy romance novels before her father shoved you two into those cryopods, Coran?”

Coran had to think about that. “I think she may have been. I know that one of her cousins gave her a whole box of them on her thirteenth birthday, and... oh, dear.”

“She may be living out a childhood fantasy,” Lizenne chuckled. “I wonder who she hopes her hero will be? Ah, well. Hunk is further out; Rociaport, I think. He's doing fine and is being kept occupied. I think that he's helping someone that he likes. That boy makes friends with such ease, it's amazing.”

“It helps that he's basically a hug in trousers,” Kolanth mused. “He's in no danger, then?”

“Not that I could tell. Once again, no distress and a good bit of enjoyment.” Lizenne shot a warning glance at Zaianne. “I'm not sure where Keith is, but it's not too far distant from Rociaport. Kipwi, perhaps, or Lonanga. Boniro at the outside. He's in trouble.”

Zaianne hissed. “What kind of trouble?”

“Once again, not sure. He's not in pain and he's not afraid—brave lad, isn't he?—but he is very angry. He may have seen or has been forced to do something that he doesn't like. I heard something that sounded a little like the ocean, or perhaps a large crowd in full voice.”

“Sporting match, maybe?” Coran suggested.

“Could be,” Lizenne allowed. “The Lonangans love professional sports, and the Kipwis love to throw big festivals. The Bonirams... I've never been there, so I'm not sure, but they're an old ally of the Empire, and they play host to some of Zarkon's relatives. His descendants from various Consorts and their relatives, and that crowd is said to share his taste for blood sports. I've never been there, since I don't care for that sort of thing. The Bonirams themselves are a dour lot.”

“How about Lance?” Coran asked.

“Comfortable, although he feels like he's suffered a disappointment of some sort, and he's homesick. I'm not sure where he is either, but it's wet there. I got a distinct whiff of swamp.” Lizenne frowned thoughtfully. “Another place I've never been. Methinks that I cut off my studies in this Sector a little too early.”

“It can't be helped,” Modhri murmured, refilling her mug. “And Pidge?”

Lizenne sipped at her tea and shook her head. “Alive. Unhurt. Angry, although after the Prince's most recent antics, that's not surprising. Busy. Still dragging around the rags and tatters of Haggar's hex. I was trying to get a better look, but Tilla and Soluk cut that short.”

Soluk growled softly and gripped the back of her shirt between his teeth, giving her a little shake before letting her go. She swatted half-heartedly at his nose, missed, and sighed. “I know, I was pushing it. I'm fine, you two, and so are they. I would have stopped in a few more minutes, anyway.”

Soluk vented a disbelieving snort that made the others chuckle.

“So, where to first?” Coran asked. “My vote's for Sowirra.”

“Naturally,” Zaianne said in an acidic tone.

Modhri raised a hand to forestall Coran's pithy reply. “That's not a bad idea. She's the nearest to us, after all, and we Galra will not be noticed as anything out of the ordinary there. Any of us could probably pose as a messenger or an emissary to get into the Governor's manor and steal her away, or simply offer to buy her from him. Once we have her back safe and sound, she can help us pinpoint where the others are through the Lion-bond.”

Even Zaianne couldn't see anything wrong with that; a quick stop to pick up the Princess would take far less time than hunting around three planets for Keith. Lizenne smiled and patted Modhri's hand fondly. “And that's one of the many reasons why I chose him. Simple good sense. Does this plan meet with your approval, O wise and inscrutable Dragons?”

Tilla chirped agreeably and licked Modhri's ear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we do live to tease Lance. It's our goal in life. But here is a new chapter, posted early! We hope you continue to enjoy the story, and please feel free to tell us your thoughts and feelings, even if it's just to yell at us about frog princesses. ^_^


	18. Oh, All Right.  And A Little Fanservice.

Chapter 18: Oh, All Right, And A Little Fanservice.

 

Varda was in love with the Stronghold... or most of it. It truly was an ancient ruin, a relic of some long-ago war and largely forgotten by the surrounding universe. Better than that, it was familiar in a way that she couldn't quite make out, the greater part of its systems responding to her touch with smooth if somewhat time-addled ease. The pirates had done their best, but the fort's last battle had taken a terrible toll upon it, and the following centuries of abandonment had not been kind. The crew quarters were quite roomy, having been built to house at least three times the number that it was housing now, although the detention block (all forts had to have one, it was traditional) looked as though someone had set off a bomb in it, so old Captain Pellmebar's quartermaster had gotten his work teams to clear the wreckage and set it up as parts storage. The clinic was far larger than the _Quandary's_ and nearly intact, and the original medical equipment therein was equal to or superior to what Doc had to work with aboard ship. The kitchen, on the other hand, had been a total loss. Varda had been told that something had evolved in one of the autochefs that had eaten everything edible and a lot of things that hadn't been, and had attacked the original discoverers with such ravenous ferocity that they'd been forced to burn the whole room clean with a beam cannon. None of the cooks in the following centuries had bothered to even try to refurbish the slagged, stained, and still-smelly room, so they'd turned it into a laundry room instead. The main hall was enormous fun for a lot of the crew, being basically a vast natural bubble in the planet's bedrock that connected the surface levels to all four basement levels; one could quite easily get everywhere from there, and to make it even more interesting, there were three dozen catwalks connecting every level to each other, and antigravity generators set here and there that had served as both freight and personnel elevators. They were very old and more than a little glitchy, and tended to turn on and off without warning. This made using them a bit of an adventure, and many of the less agile crewmen had opted to sling rope ladders between the catwalks instead. The defenses, of course, were first-rate, and had been upgraded zealously throughout the years, even though most of the original emplacements still worked. “Can't have too many guns if you've been forced to go to ground,” Yantilee had told her. “Or sheildwalls, for that matter.”

The Stronghold certainly had both. Quite aside from the fort's main surface doors, which were huge, three meters thick, and designed for awesome, the Stronghold possessed no less than four powerful force-shield generators and extensive banks of cannon emplacements. The main gun—a great spiraling holiday ornament of a weapon that looked like it could shoot down a six-mile-long asteroid had been inactive since its glory days and had been too big for the pirates to replace—had presented an interesting problem. Varda had gotten it working again by forcing a fine spray of horath down its ports to clean out the things that had been growing in there. Doc hadn't appreciated her filching a portion of his stock, but hadn't complained too much. Those planet-busters had frightened him badly, and he wanted something more than a few layers of rock between himself and total annihilation. The old fort also held unlimited opportunities for setting in booby traps, which she did in her spare time, often with Nasty's help. He found it relaxing, he said, after a hard day's work of making repairs on the _Quandary._

Varda needed the hobby, if only to vent her frustrations. Quite aside from the damage that Osric had taken—which was worse than they had originally thought—the Stronghold itself held a stubborn puzzle that continued to annoy her. In addition to the more modern force-shields, the Stronghold possessed a huge, powerful particle barrier generator of its own, a shield of a type that could also be a weapon. Unfortunately, this was possessed by a portion of the fort's original AI, which was stubborn, cryptic, weird, and absolutely refused to allow anyone to engage the system. It made rude noises and ruder comments whenever anyone tried to bypass it, and Osric seemed to be unable or unwilling to uproot the ancient program. Not even Varda's inborn talent could wrangle the thing, and so she viewed it as a test of her mechanical skills. An irritating, frustrating, and infuriating test of her mechanical skills.

She was wrestling with the stubborn thing again during one late shift, determined to bend both the machine itself and its cranky AI to her will, and not having much luck. _“Give it up, you scrawny little bolt-twiddling urchin,”_ it grumped at her in a snippy, clipped accent that was weirdly familiar. _“I said that I shall have the ears from he who tries to activate that shield, and ears I shall have before I allow so much as carpet static into the energy leads!”_

“What's wrong with my ears?” Varda demanded, shaking a wrench at the offending mechanism. “They're perfectly good ears.”

“ _Not pointy enough!”_ came the sharp reply. “Quiznek! _There's not a decent example of auditory equipment among the lot of you.”_

“We've got a lot of people with pointy ears!” Varda protested. “Some of them have more than one set! All sizes and all shapes! You're practically wading in ears!”

“ _None of which are mine,”_ The AI pointed out stiffly.

There was a movement by the doorway, and Varda turned to see Kezz ambling in, looking as though he'd had a long and weary shift. “Are you still trying to strong-arm this thing?” he asked, scratching at one overgrown ear. “Ronok's wondering where you are, Varda, you've missed dinner. And had a tool-splosion.”

Varda grimaced. In her attempts to find out where the blockage in the energy leads was, she'd spread the contents of her toolbox all over the floor. “Yeah, sorry. I think that the AI was bonded to a particular person who probably died thousands of years ago, and it's not really interested in cooperating with me. Watch your step over there. From the looks of things, you're about to fall over all by yourself.”

Kezz nodded. “Ship techs found bad cabling in the forward laser array, and we had to replace all of it. Miles of cables, each one as thick as my wrist, and heavy! The only reason I'm still awake is that I need someone to give me a swat across the nose, and everyone below is already sacked out.”

“Oh, right,” Varda shot him an apologetic look, but she'd tool-scattered herself into a corner. “Sorry. I tend to forget the time when I'm working on something. Just come over here... careful!”

Kezz had begun to pick his way through the mess, but in his weariness he misjudged a step and put his foot down on a screwdriver, which immediately slipped sideways. The lanky Vontakle staggered, waving his arms wildly for balance, and fell face-first onto the shield generator with a clang. Both ears dropped off with leathery little thumps.

“ _Aha!”_ The mad AI cried triumphantly and burst into gleeful laughter. _“I have his ears! Behold!”_

The ancient machine hummed and came to life with a faint _voom_ noise, and Varda's belt-comm crackled a moment later. _“Hey, the particle barrier just came online!”_ Luddi's voice said happily. _“Well done, Varda! What did you do?”_

“It wasn't me, but I'm pretty sure that we can do it again on command,” Varda replied, and then glanced up at the ceiling as she did when addressing the AI. “You like him, do you?”

“ _Of course. I said that I shall have the ears of my operator, and I now have his ears!”_ it burbled happily.

Varda swelled in mechanic's rage, trying to hold in the scream of frustrated fury that would doubtless wake up every sleeping crewmen in the entire fort, mastered it, and deflated with a sigh. “Fine. Just... fine. Kezz?”

“Yeah?” he said blurrily, rubbing at the large bruise that was already forming on his nose.

“I am giving you a promotion. You are now the Guardian of the Gate, and your job is to get this miserable machine working when we need it. Understand?”

“Sure,” Kezz replied, his eyes trying to spin in opposite directions. “Y'r nice. Thanks. Ow. What jus' happen?”

Varda grumbled something impolite at the snickering AI under her breath. “Serendipity. Come on, let's get you down to the clinic...”

Kezz had given himself a righteous whang and definitely needed help getting to Doc's domain; by the time they got there, the bruise had spread upward to give him a definite raccoonish look. Doc clucked disapprovingly at that and treated the bruise and the mild concussion, laying the exhausted pilot out on a cot to sleep it off. “I heard that you got the old particle barrier working,” he said quietly, “congratulations.”

“It wasn't me,” she replied, and described what had happened.

Doc puffed an amused laugh at the AI's ridiculous requirements. “Silly old thing. Oh, well, if it means another layer of defense between us and disaster, then ears it shall have! And speaking of defensive layers--” he handed Varda a vial of something pink. “Please don't run this time. Nobody has the energy to give you a proper chase, and most of them are asleep at the moment. It really is very late.”

Varda had to admit that he was right, but she still made her grossest face at the taste of it to let him know that she was only doing it because he had asked her nicely. “Yuck. Just tell Ronok that I'll be down once I've got my tools put away, all right?”

“I can do that,” Doc replied. “It was fried tomburrit and lelosha wraps tonight, with steamed niqui and ossal salad. If you're lucky, he's kept them warm for you.”

Varda's belly promptly informed her that it had gotten fed up with being ignored all day, and wanted to get fed up in a more appropriate manner  _right now._ Doc chuckled at the surprisingly loud gastric grumble. Varda grinned sheepishly, ran back to the control room and packed up her tools as quickly as she could, and then scampered down to the kitchen as quickly as her feet would carry her. Ronok, as always, had waited up for her, and was making good use of the time to prepare abblet dumplings, which always tasted better when left to sit in the cooler overnight before cooking. He flicked an oily finger at one of the warming ovens, and she found her dinner therein. He let her eat in peace, which was just as well; she loved lelosha wraps, and wouldn't have heard anything he'd said over her crunching.

“Haswick tells me that the repairs are going well,” Ronok told her once she'd slowed down enough to listen. “They've got that imbalance in the main drive sorted out and have replaced the ruined guns. The thrusters are still giving them some trouble, but he says that the techs have found out what was causing the gimbles to drift and will fix that in the morning.”

“What was it?” Varda asked around a mouthful of niqui.

“Bad dihoxulator. Must've popped all its twiblets when you had Osric rush those planet-busters.” Ronok shook his head in grim amazement. “Planet-busters. Kuphorosk to take the rest of that fleet and recycle it for wind-up toys, but not to bother with punishing Lotor, because the _Night Terror's_ got first dibs.”

Varda giggled. “Who's Kuphorosk? I've heard the name before, somewhere.”

“One of the old gods of Galran Prime,” Ronok replied. “There were a fair number of them, and they dealt with things like hunting, fertility, the weather, craftsmanship, and things like that. Kuphorosk dealt with the dead, and with the things that made people dead.”

“Hmmph.” Varda said noncommittally, digging into her tomburrit. “Good god or bad god?”

“Neither. He was a hunter.” Ronok said musingly, adjusting the filling dispenser to properly deposit blobs of ground protein and vegetables onto long rows of little pasta squares as they made their way up the autocrimper's conveyor belt. “Most of them were, but he was the best. The others might miss a kill, but he never, ever did, and like all of the best hunters he cared for and protected the creatures he preyed on. That was us, of course, among other things. No one is immortal, you see. One might elude him for a time, even as kelupri might evade a hunting zarruch, but he'll have you in the end. The trick, you see, was to be worthy prey, to really make him work for the victory, and to impress him enough to treasure your soul for its bravery and skill. To be forever preserved as a jewel on his _khe'guon_ -string was the hope of heroes, once.”

“What's a _khe'guon_ string?” Varda asked curiously.

Ronok smiled faintly, moving the full output bin aside and sliding an empty one under the chute with the smooth ease of long practice. “Sort of a memory-string, worn by the best hunters in the ancient days. After a particularly challenging hunt, he would keep a tooth, a bit of horn, or a claw to remember the noble beast by, and when he was old, he would regale the cubs with tales of how fast the creatures were, how brave, how fierce, and how skilled. Few carry such things now, although I still have my great-great-grandfather's string. Kuphorosk collected souls, but only the best of them. Ordinary souls were handed off to the fertility goddess to try again, of course, but unworthy souls weren't so lucky. Those were punished, and he could be quite inventive. Sometimes, if a person was being particularly awful, he would reach out his influence to foil their aims while they still lived, usually in the form of a sudden heart attack or a weapons malfunction. Still, he was polite about it in most cases; those that the unworthy ones had wronged were generally allowed the honor of the first strike. My great-great-grandfather was a theologian and archaeologist in his youth, and he had a great many tales of our long and bloody history to frighten wide-eyed youngsters with.”

Varda had a mental picture of a dozen or so frost-furred Galra children clustered avidly around a grizzled elder, begging the old fellow for just one more story of the old days, when legends walked the common earth and left burning footprints in solid stone behind them, and whose mighty voices might echo in deep caverns for years after they had gone. “Sounds like fun.”

“It was,” Ronok said wistfully, swapping out the now-full dumpling bin with an empty one. “I was inconsolable when he died. It was his secret recipe for saldmin-spiced oqua that let me discover my passion for cooking. And no, I never blamed him for my misfortunes on that level. It was hardly his fault that the rest of the family was a festering pack of arrogant _dhreogas,_ now was it?”

His words were light, but the lines in his face had deepened, and Varda knew that he was missing his sister again. She laid down her fork and stood up, hugging him from behind as she did when he got like this. She heard him sigh, and felt his hand pat hers. She knew that he had mixed feelings about the possibility of her rejoining the Paladins, and she shared them. As much as she missed them and feared for their safety, she knew that she would miss her uncle and worry about him just as much. He was old, far too old to have children of his own to dote on, and all of his other relatives were dead. She had a bad feeling that if she did leave, he wouldn't last for long afterward.

Ronok must have guessed at some portion of her thoughts, for she heard him vent a sardonic chuckle. “Who's comforting who, here? Finish your dinner, girl, then go to bed. We've a long day ahead of us and should meet it with fortitude. Every day we all do our quota of useful work, and every tightened nut and mended circuit brings us that much closer to terrorizing the starlanes again. See it in your mind, love! The great doors of the Stronghold shall sweep most ponderously aside, and the awesome hull of the  _Osric's Quandary,_ proud Flagship of the Ghost Fleet, shall sail forth to bring woe unto our sworn enemies.”

Varda giggled. “Poetic. Do we even have a flag?”

He flicked her a grin over his shoulder. “No. I suppose you could design one in your spare time, assuming that you can find any.”

 

Lotor sat in his command chair, brooding over a large data file, which was better than brooding on his misfortunes. The last battle with the pirates had not gone at all as he had hoped. The pirates had proven to be hellishly clever, and did not think or act like a proper military at all. He himself had made some poor decisions in the heat of the moment that had cost him the respect of his men, which had only been partially mitigated by pausing to pick up the survivors from the broken ships that the pirates had left in their wake. He had lost the Ghost Fleet entirely, for they had vanished without a trace like the phantoms that they had been named for. His loss of the two planet-busters would not go over well at home, either.

Currently, he was studying his foes. At his command, the law-enforcement agencies in this Sector and in the neighboring ones had provided him with everything they knew about the ships he'd been able to identify, most particularly the _Osric's Quandary;_ it made for some fascinating reading, at least. He'd gone through the information before, but a deeper, in-depth study seemed to be appropriate now. Even in the clipped form of official reports, there was enough drama here to keep a soap opera vid channel stocked with prime material for decades. He knew for a fact that the _Night Terror_ alone would spawn an entire series of horror vids... oops, and apparently already had on at least one colony out here.

He was studying the history of the ludicrously-named _Mop_ when his comm officer spoke up. “Your Highness?”

“Yes?” Lotor said distractedly.

“Ship approaching, an official courier from the office of the Governor of Hilpemro, sir,” the officer replied, “one of his best informants spotted a person of interest on one of the smuggler's ports in his jurisdiction, and felt it worth his while to order the capture of that person. Turns out to be a Juskoran by the name of Plosser, sir. They've got him aboard that courier and are asking if you've got a use for the fellow.”

Lotor smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I believe that I do. Have him brought aboard. I have many questions to ask of the Captain of the _Quandary.”_

Former captain, Lotor found out a few minutes later, and didn't blame the pirates for getting rid of him. Juskorans were a repellent people, from their ungraceful appearance to their disagreeable body odor, to say nothing of the vile temper and capacity for profanity, which could practically be bottled and used as an industrial solvent. Even bound and surrounded on all sides by the enemy, the creature remained defiant. That, at least, Lotor could respect.

“Enough of your bluster,” he said after a little time, cutting across Plosser's cursing, “your life depends upon the information you possess at this time. Up until recently, you were the captain of the _Quandary,_ and I want that ship. You will tell me everything you know of it.”

The Juskoran bared brown teeth at him, eyes burning like embers. “And what'll you give me for that?” he snarled, “No service without a price, Galra.”

“Nothing at all,” Lotor said, baring his own fangs at the prisoner. “I am the Crown Prince of the Galra Empire. You are a pirate, and therefore considered to be vermin by far more authorities than the Empire alone. I have reports from over a dozen Governors, all of whom would very much like to pull your limbs off and crush you like the insect you are, and I see nothing wrong—and neither will anyone else—in indulging them. You have no rights here, and I have a team of specialists that will squeeze the information I want out of you if you do not speak. They've been a trifle bored of late, and would relish a challenge. If you do speak freely and if the information is good, then I will consider disappointing them.”

“They'll get nothing,” Plosser hissed. “I was a member of the Tac'Noprothi Military Elite before you bastards took Juskon, and I've been hardened against all interrogation techniques. You'll kill me before you get anything of use.”

“True,” Lotor said lightly, “or at least it was true forty years ago. You weren't the only surviving member of that agency, Plosser. You were just the only one that got away. The rest were taken back to the Center for study, and proved to be quite informative in the end. You'll give us everything, one way or the other. Death will be only the last in a very long list of things that will happen to you if you do not speak now.”

Plosser snorted. “And how do I know that you speak the truth?”

“You don't,” Lotor admitted, and waved a hand at one of his men. “Lieutenant Tilwass, however, was privileged to witness one of those interrogations. Lieutenant?”

The graying officer nodded. “Yes, sir. It was a bit hurried, so they didn't do much that was fancy. They just knocked the head off, ran a smart-cable down the spinal column into the primary brain, and attached an audio intake and a speaker to the other end. Had to core out the nerve-trunk a little to make room, but they weren't intending to keep him much longer anyway. Oh, yeah, he talked. If he didn't, he screamed. A little hard on the ears, that, but effective.”

Plosser's blue hide had gone a sickly gray, and Lotor knew that he had won. “Speak, Plosser. Every word you say will add one second to the amount of time that I am willing to spare on your continued existence... outside of the interrogation room, at least. Earn many seconds, pirate. Spare no details, and I might find enough mercy to have you sent to a work camp instead of simply spacing what little will be left of you once my specialists are finished.”

Plosser let out a grinding scream and wrenched hard at the cuffs holding his wrists. Surprisingly, the tough metal parted, and Lotor watched with interest as his personal guardsmen wrestled the desperate alien to the floor and pinned him there. “No escape, Plosser,” Lotor informed him, “not this time, and you've gone and given yourself a thirty-minute time debit already. Lieutenant, do the specialists have a smart-cable ready?”

Tilwass grinned evilly. “They've got the whole kit, Highness, and some extra that they picked up at our last stop. Want me to tell 'em to get it all set up?”

“Do that,” Lotor said, gazing down at Plosser's quivering bulk. “Unless our guest here has something that he wishes to say first...?”

Plosser groaned and gave in.

 

“He wants us to _what?”_ Allura said indignantly as Helenva fished around in one of the chests in the dressing room. She had not slept well the previous night despite the softness of her bed, and wasn't taking certain realities of her situation very well. At least Sarapvet had heard Allura's initial outburst echoing in the halls, and had declared himself too tired to deal with a new girl's intransigence that night, which had made it slightly easier. The second and third days, she had managed to please him well enough with a demonstration of traditional Altean Court dances and the legends that her mother had told her as a child, but she could tell that those wouldn't hold him for much longer.

“You heard me, and I did warn you,” Helenva replied, and tossed her a small packet. “Galra men like their women strong, and Sarapvet is no exception. Those pretty dances that your tutors taught you are nice, but our lot prefer a more robust style. The Histories tell us that your kind were surprisingly tough, capable of besting a warrior twice your size, and the old man's eager to see if that still holds true. Look at it this way—you'll have the opportunity to get me back for that bump to the rump that I gave you the first time we fought.”

Allura groaned. Even though her Paladin training had added considerable strength to her body, she did not relish the thought of having to wrestle the Galra woman again. “I fail to see the attraction of such an activity.”

Helenva's teeth flashed in a grin, and she straightened up with another of the packets in one hand. “Led a sheltered life before all of this, didn't you? During one of my previous trips, I happened to visit a library, and was able to charm the docent into showing me the restricted files. Among the most ancient collections was a small folder of Altean entertainment chips, one of which showed, quite clearly, a wrestling match. Three large men, to be precise, beautifully muscled and very enthusiastically engaged in the center of what appeared to be a mud wallow.”

Allura's cheeks reddened in a blush. “The Mud Festival Games of the southern Teralique Province,” she murmured, “a commoner's ritual that was said to boost the fertility of the marsh fields. My older relatives used to attend, although only to watch. I was curious, but Father said that I was too young. Coran used to go every year.”

Helenva chuckled. “I'll bet that he did. I would have paid to see it myself. You might as well unroll and put on your suit, girl, since they take a little getting used to. We'll get Meledra to braid up our hair so that we don't wind up scalping each other.”

Allura gazed dubiously at the palm-sized packet in her hand and undid the catch on the cover, allowing a long slither of fluid bronze glitter to slide out. She caught it before it could slip to the floor and stared at it in disbelief. She was no stranger to body-sleeves, but this was a bit much. _“This_ is a suit?”

Helenva snapped out her own suit with a practiced flip of the wrist. It was little more than a shimmer of silver and a lot of wishful thinking. “Xelocian soluna silk. Very pretty, very elastic, almost frictionless, and remarkably durable. And no, it doesn't leave anything at all to the imagination. There will be a great deal of sliding about and groping in our near future, and if it makes you feel any better, it took me a quarter-hour to stop blushing the first time I had to wear one of these.”

Allura sighed heavily. “Right, right, this is a harem, indecency is normal and expected. All the same, must we?”

“Alas, yes,” Helenva replied, testing the stretch of the fabric by pulling at one gleaming sleeve. “Put on your most waifish expression for the audience and go through the motions. I'll be doing the same. _Tchang vadri_ aren't warriors, you know, and the whole point of the exercise is to give the boys something to salivate over. Just be glad that he didn't want you to wrestle Quilemne.”

Allura shuddered. Quilemne was a shy, sweet-tempered Ss!leeoo beta-female and a talented musician, but she was eight feet tall, changed colors constantly, and her skeleton was almost entirely cartilaginous. This made her unbelievably limber and strong; wrestling her would be like trying to tackle a nest of snakes. Very large, very strong snakes, and ones prone to tickle. “If I should win our match, what will happen?”

Helenva frowned and stretched the sleeve of her suit again, released it, and watched it snap back into place with a flash and a glitter. “Judging by the last few times he's asked the girls for this sort of thing? You'll be given the privilege of draping yourself artistically over the back of his couch—there won't be room on the seat, trust me—or over the lap of one of his distinguished guests. You might have to put up with being petted a bit, but you're largely ornamental. Sarapvet doesn't share his girls, and I'm his current favorite. If he does start sniffing at your hair, offer to get him a glass of wine and I'll distract him from you while you're fetching that. To be doubly sure, get him a glass of the light-blue stuff from the bottle with gold stars on it. I've added something to that one that will cool his ardor a bit.”

“More than a bit, I should hope,” Allura said, running her fingers over the slick bronze fabric. “Oh, dear, if Coran should ever see me in this...”

Helenva grinned. “It might be worth adding it to your getaway purse, if only to see him explode. You might as well. The silk itself is worth six times its weight in Ronarian blue diamonds... and there is still one Altean planet left. Might come in handy when it comes time to choose yourself a man, eh? Or perhaps one of the boys you've already got?”

“Amalthi!” Allura giggled, blushing hotly as she imagined her team's possible reactions. Lance in particular might need a week in the infirmary to recover. “You're evil. So, how do I get into this thing?”

“Through the neckline. You'll have to strip down first, of course. Here, I'll help you, and then you can help me.”

A short but embarrassingly athletic time later, they had donned their suits, although in Allura's opinion, they might as well not have bothered. “Something wrong?” Helenva asked, adjusting her neckline a bit.

“I love the sparkle, but it might as well be a layer of paint,” Allura moaned, gazing at her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her gaze turned considering then, and her stance changed as she admired the muscle tone that the suit so elegantly displayed. “I look good in it.”

Helenva chuckled. “You do, indeed! Be glad of what you have, Liana. It's a matter of pride, and of attitude, and it's a tool that no woman should be ignorant of the use of. Now let's go and talk to Meledra. She's been wanting to get her hands on your hair since you arrived.”

That last was an understatement. Meledra was small, vulpine, blue-black, extravagantly furry, and her slim, six-fingered hands were very clever. “White hair is extremely rare among my kind,” she said in her soft, wispy voice as she wielded brush and comb. “Oh, yes, very rare. The desert cultures consider it sacred and the wetland cultures don't, but they like it anyway. A person star-dappled or fully moon-colored need never be lonely. It has been a privilege to work with Amalthi's fur, which is only a little purple in spots. Yours is lovely. And has such a nice texture. Tell me, Liana, how do your people see it, and what is it like where you grew up?”

Allura could not help but feel a pang of loss. She had told the other girls that she'd come from Quolothis, of course, and knew that the terraformers had intended to do their best to make it a duplicate of Altea. She had not embroidered much upon that necessary untruth since her companions here would not know the difference, and probably never would. “White hair has been a hallmark of the royal family for centuries,” she began, “although it tends to crop up among the commons fairly frequently. Princes are usually very popular among the people. Sometimes a little too popular.”

Meledra twittered humorously, running her fingers appreciatively through Allura's hair. “Always. A little royal blood in you, perhaps?”

“Oh, definitely. My family was very proud of it,” Allura replied with perfect truth, and felt a deeper pang of sorrow that stung tears from her eyes. “I miss them.”

“As is only proper,” Meledra said softly. “The Galra took you away and sold you, I expect. They do that. It is a way to remind others of their power. And their own, at times. Amalthi could not give her Matriarch cubs, so she profited her family through her sale. It is a cruel habit.”

Allura nodded. “I lost my world, my people, and my family to them. I want to make them stop doing that.”

“Don't we all!” Meledra grasped her firmly by the ears. “And if the rumors are true and Voltron has reemerged, they might stand a chance of doing just that. Now hold your head still while I work, and tell me of your home.”

Allura was happy to do that, telling them of the sky-spearing mountains and high valleys blanketed with gorgeous flowers in their season, the fierce weather and shining waterways, the marsh farms that stretched all the way to the horizon and the busy cities full of industrious people. She could practically see each moss-hung cloraia tree in the temperate forests, smell the soft scent of the morning mists over the Great Nolnora plains in the springtime, and hear the long musical calls of the tleboram herds as they made their way to their western breeding grounds in the autumn as she described them to her companions. It was painful to recall that all of those things were lost and gone forever, but it kept her occupied while Meledra braided her hair into a tight crown around her head. Meledra listened closely, and clucked sympathetically over her homesick weeping. “Sounds like a lovely place, and you saw some of the best of it. Your family was well-off.”

“Yes,” Allura replied, struggling to master her emotions. “Father and Mother had important jobs, so we only rarely were able to run away and enjoy ourselves as a family. I treasure the memories of those trips.”

Meledra hummed thoughtfully. “That was probably why you were taken. If your parents were starting to annoy their overlords, your abduction was to teach them to mind their manners. Predators get right to the point when angered. You are not alone in your sorrows, Liana! Half the girls here have the same tale to tell, and some are very High Family indeed! Sarapvet not only collects the rare, but the exalted. Let it be known that it was the Favored Luminance, Her Right Noble Excellence of the Grand Soborliar, First Daughter of the High Priestess-Queen of the Holy Realm of Phorumnosh, who did your hair today.”

Allura tipped her head back to stare at her furry stylist. “Really?”

“Of course not,” Meledra said with a twittering giggle. “Certainly not officially. My father was a waste management worker. Mother really was the High Priestess-Queen, but since they were of completely unaffiliated castes and could not by Holy Law indulge in even a three-day handfasting, I cannot claim the rank without a good deal of legal wrangling. My fortune consists entirely of an embarrassing family resemblance and a talent for the joys of the bedchamber. How tedious, eh? Mother pressured Father into selling me offworld to the Governor's procurers when people started to notice how much I looked like her. I may never forgive either of them. Amalthi, your turn.”

Allura gave Meledra a quizzical look, but moved to a different chair and watched as the midnight-furred Telona began to brush out Helenva's hair. “If you were able to leave this place, what would you do?”

Meledra made a soft clucking sound. “I am not sure quite yet. I would need to do some research first, on a terminal with outside access. Depending on how certain political plots have played out in the last few years, I will either settle myself comfortably on a friendly planet, or I will go home and demand to be recognized by the Sacred Families. Bastard-born or no, I am of the Priestess-Queen's bloodline, and by Holy Law, I am owed certain considerations. It is not Lawful to sell one's offspring to aliens. No one is above the Law. My return could spell the end of her reign, and since she panders to the Galra most shamefully to preserve her own power, this would cause my people no sorrow.”

Allura cocked her head curiously at Meledra, who had separated Helenva's pale, lavender-streaked hair into seven neat plaits and was weaving them together in an elegant pattern. “You sound as though such a thing were a real possibility.”

“It is not possible. It is _probable._ Sarapvet is dying, and there is no provision in his records for our protection, repatriation, or care. Ordinarily, we might be kept on by his successor, who might well be worse than he is, or perhaps the harem might be split up and sold. Amalthi has decreed otherwise.” Meledra dipped her head and deposited a kiss atop Helenva's head. “If there are any Galra here whom we might be fond of, it is her... and a few of the guards.”

Allura rolled her eyes. None of the guards that she'd met thus far were to her liking, and the two she'd first encountered still looked at her in a way that she didn't like at all. Helenva smiled. “It won't be long, now. Seven or eight days at most, unless the unexpected decides to happen. Then we all may take whatever action we find necessary.”

Meledra twittered again and secured the plaits in a complicated whorl at the nape of Helenva's neck. “So we shall.”

 

“I'm not sure that I can do this,” Allura whispered nervously a little time later as she peered through the tiny service window set into the door. Sarapvet had been holding one of his banquets for something like two or three dozen of his colleagues and favorite underlings, and all of his girls had been required to attend this time, performing the service of both waitresses and eye-candy. “There are so many of them!”

Helenva snorted. “All of whom haven't been in a real fight in years, and most of them are three-quarters drunk already. Even if they did try to grab you, they'd slip right off. Frankly, we're likely to have more trouble with their personal servants and bodyguards, but Sarapvet's household troops have a vested interest in keeping us from being manhandled. Or womanhandled, for that matter. Muster your courage, Liana. Consider your previous adventures! You can rampage about like an overexcited dragon and confound your enemies with ease, and yet you get all wobbly-kneed when faced with _this?”_

“I wasn't essentially naked at the time!” Allura hissed back, but couldn't help but smile. When she put it like that, it did seem ridiculous. “Sorry. In Altean Palace culture, it wasn't done to flaunt it in public. Well, except for certain holidays or at private parties.”

Helenva gave her a sympathetic look, although whether it was for her culture or for the loss of it, Allura wasn't sure. “Wear your body, then. It's your armor, your treasure, and your best weapon. Clothes are nice, but they're ephemeral. The only thing that separates you from your body is death. I spent four years in the deep reaches of Simadht learning that, among other things. Ah. They're clearing the floor now.”

Allura fell silent as she watched the banquet table being cleared and carried away by the industrious household staff. She'd forgotten that Helenva had lost her home and family to Zarkon's ruthlessness even as she had, and with fewer advantages left to her. The Galra woman had survived and had sworn vengeance, also as Allura had, and Allura could not help but feel a certain kinship there. In the meantime, there was still this farce to get through. The other harem girls had draped themselves artistically here and there around the guests, and a few of them were preparing to provide musical accompaniment for the wrestling match. The floor was quickly swept clean of crumbs and spilled drink as well, and Allura couldn't help but notice that most of that mess had collected beneath Sarapvet's chair. She'd seen some very large Galra in the recent past, but he was by far the most grossly obese. It was just as well that Kedrekans tended to be broad and powerful, or his servants would've been forced to roll him like a ball from room to room! The rest of his colleagues weren't all that much better, having been chosen for their administrative ability rather than their physical prowess. A minute or two later they heard the chime that meant that they were now on duty.

“Pride,” Helenva whispered in her ear, “stand tall. They think that they possess you, but you have things that they will never have, nor could even dream of having. Let them stare, and forget them. Concentrate instead on showing me how much you've improved since last time.”

Reflexively, Allura checked her Lion-bond, and the warm feeling of her team gave her courage. All of them were alive and well, she could make out that much, and the strength of their shared bond cheered her up immeasurably. She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, her chin coming up defiantly. “Let's do this.”

Helenva smiled. “Yes.”

They stepped through the doors side-by side, to a soft drumroll from one of the musicians, and a secret part of Allura exulted at the bulging eyes and stares of abject longing among the audience. Distantly, she wondered whether or not she could get the same sort of rise out of her teammates, and then scolded herself for such ignoble thoughts as she and Helenva bowed first to their audience, then to each other, and then squared off for the match. Helenva winked at her, and she grinned back, and they lunged eagerly for each other when Sarapvet gave the signal to start.

Helenva had been right about the near-frictionless quality of their suits; Allura's initial grab at Helenva's shoulders skidded right off of the slick fabric and she wound up being wrapped in a bear hug and lifted clear off of the floor. Undaunted, she wrapped her legs around her foe's waist and raised her arms, slipping free of Helenva's grasp with a lithe wriggle. Bending backward, she got her hands around one of Helenva's ankles. With a heave that made someone in the audience gasp, she managed to topple her opponent over forward. Helenva caught herself easily, turning a potential faceplant into a supple forward somersault, and within seconds was on her feet and ready for another assault. Before long, the audience was cheering them both on indiscriminately, the drums and flutes offering a second sort of encouragement, and Allura was genuinely enjoying herself. She had improved considerably, she noticed—all of those shoving matches with Tilla and Soluk, as well as the half-year of constant training she had received, had made her stronger and more agile than she had ever been before. Helenva might have been holding back, but Allura was reasonably certain that she could give the wily Blade a real challenge later, when they were in a more advantageous situation. In her heart, the black Lion roared his encouragement, and gave her strength. She forgot about the crowd of Galra officials, forgot that she was a prisoner, forgot everything but the challenge, and might even have won the bout if a side door had not opened suddenly, slamming hard into the wall with a loud bang that shocked her out of her trance. Startled, she stumbled and half-fell into Helenva's arms, gasping for breath and staring in amazement at the new arrival. He was another Galra, a big, broad-shouldered Korbexan in an officer's uniform with a sealed message packet in one hand, and he was absolutely furious.

“Sarapvet, you idiot!” he roared at the shocked Governor, waving the packet threateningly at him. “How hard is it to keep a comm or a pager with you? I've been trying to get through your godsdamned bureaucratic firewall for the past hour and a half! I had to stun six guards, two servants, and a butler just to get to you, and with vital information—for your eyes only, you sloppy _tchang sula—_ that was deemed too important to trust to the usual channels. It really is, I've checked the security tags. Damn it man, you've been warned, and your crony over at the Department of Provinces has been replaced, so you can't bribe your way out of a censure again. Especially if whatever in this packet is time-sensitive.”

Sarapvet growled angrily and heaved his bulk up a little straighter on the couch, displacing the harem girl who had been perched precariously on his knee. He ignored her squeak of protest and rumbled back. “If it was time-sensitive, they wouldn't have sent it by Courier. The Dispatcher at the CommHub Station's prone to playing jokes, the bastard, and if he's interrupted my evening for his own amusement again, I'll make him regret it.” He turned and leveled a scathing glare at everyone else in the room. “Out, all of you. Guards, escort the girls back to the harem. I have work to do.”

Helenva humphed and tried to steady Allura, who needed it. She was exhausted; all of the long muscles in her limbs and back were trembling from her recent exertions, and her knees were threatening to buckle beneath her. Allura tried to get a grip on Helenva's arm, but her damp palms slipped helplessly over the silk.

Helenva sighed and muttered, “Drat. Torozan, would you give me a hand here?”

“Sure, Miss,” a man's voice said, and Allura squeaked and jerked away from the armored hand that slipped under her arm. “Don't worry, Miss, I won't hurt you. I need this job too much to risk it, and Amalthi here would peel me like a wozzack if I even looked like I was considering it. Just lean on me and take it one step at a time.”

Allura looked up warily at the guard, and was surprised at the kind smile that actually reached his citrine-colored eyes. Sarapvet preferred open-faced helmets for his household guards, and while the burly Galra wasn't attractive by her standards, his gentle expression was.

“Ever the charmer,” Helenva smiled warmly at him. “It's nice to see you again, Torozan. I take it that Corporal Sanzet started whining for a turn again?”

Torozan nodded, easing Allura along. “Yup. He can slice through armorplate with his voice alone when he thinks he's being cheated out of his rights. Besides, it's been three weeks already, and you know that Corporal Kloss likes to hog this end of the building whenever he sees a chance. Not surprising, really, when you consider the perks we get for keeping an eye on you ladies. Fortunately for us, the Household Staff Director has sensitive ears and rotated us in to preserve 'em. New girl here? Where do you want her?”

Helenva gestured down the hall. “The bathing room first. She'll need a warm soak and a massage to keep those muscles from stiffening up all at once. Her name is Liana, and yes, she was brought in only a few days ago.”

Torozan hummed thoughtfully. “I'd heard that he'd just got hold of a real rarity. Altean, right? From that world-in-a-bubble that the Emperor's got. Poor thing, she's a long way from home.”

Helenva puffed a faint breath. “Aren't we all?”

“Truth,” Torozan muttered, and Allura was surprised to see homesickness flicker across the guard's face. “Just get the door for me, Amalthi? She's a little bit of an armful.”

Helenva did that, and Allura found herself being guided with reasonable speed and dispatch into the bathing chamber, where she was settled down on a handy bench by one wall. Helenva thanked the guard and shooed him away, and then set about getting Allura out of her suit and into a pool of deliciously warm water. After a few minutes, Helenva joined her, sighing happily at the heat.

Some time later, Allura felt herself revived enough to murmur, “Have I improved?”

There was a snort of amusement from the other side of the pool. “Considerably. I look forward to our next bout. Dressed properly next time, I promise.”

Allura giggled. “You're on... although I might just decide to keep that suit!”

Helenva laughed richly, and Allura couldn't help but smile. Still, something twinged at her conscience. “Do you know that guard from somewhere?”

Helenva shrugged. “Torozan and the rest of his troop were on harem duty when I arrived, that's all. He's a sweet boy and should never have joined the military—his heart's too soft for that work. I believe that he's in it to help his family somehow. It's not uncommon. Soldiers are people too, with hopes and needs of their own. Be kind to him, if you can.”

Allura lay back in the warm water with an uneasy feeling in her heart. Her previous experiences with Galra soldiers hadn't been good. On the other hand, she had been their enemy, even as they had been hers, and in their eyes had merited that rough treatment. “Just following orders,” she murmured the ancient, timeworn excuse softly into the rising steam. “Why do perfectly decent people let others tell them to do horrible things, Amalthi? I've never really understood that.”

Helenva was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was grim and very quiet. “Eighty percent of all Galra are followers. It's instinctive. In a full clutch, there will be one girl, who is a little queen and will lay down the law of the pack. There will also be one or two boys with leadership capabilities, and they will lead the rest, under the direction and guidance of the queen. The seven or eight other boys are not so aggressive, but they will follow orders from their greater brothers, and most of the time they will not question those orders. This makes of them a most efficient hunting team. All for the betterment of the pack, once upon a very long time ago.”

“And the leaders no longer listen to the queens,” Allura whispered.

A faint laugh that had little to do with humor curled through the mist. “Oh, they do. It just doesn't help that the highest-ranking female in the Empire is a bloody-handed sociopath, and the rest of us are expected to spend our best years in solitary study. Or in raising cubs of our own.”

Allura heard a tiny thread of yearning in that last sentence, and she cocked a quizzical look in Helenva's direction. She hadn't figured Helenva as a family type. “You hope to do so?”

“If I survive long enough, and if I can find the right man,” Helenva admitted. “Every Galra woman wants children, but she must take care to choose the very best man for her mate. The _very_ best, for she is a rare and precious thing in and of herself, and cannot waste herself upon the unsatisfactory.”

Allura hummed, remembering how young noblemen had danced attendance on her, once upon a very long time ago. She'd been her father's only child and would have been required to continue the Royal Bloodline herself eventually, and all of those princes and dukes and earls had been hoping to make the cut. “I wonder what Haggar saw in Zarkon?”

Helenva clicked her tongue thoughtfully. “He was a royal, if only a minor one. He was strong and healthy, with an able mind and a powerful will, and the few surviving images of him in his youth show a fine young fellow who was very handsome as Golrazi go. He was also a Paladin.”

“Yes,” Allura whispered, thinking of her own teammates, and of how dear they had become to her over the past year or two. She missed them, all of them, everything about them, even Lance's ungraceful come-ons, Pidge's snarkiness, Keith's iffy temper, and Hunk's habit of scattering crumbs about. She missed Shiro's soothing presence, Coran's alternating wisdom and buffoonery, and the skills and foibles of her Galra friends. She missed her mice, she missed the dragons, and she missed her ship. The loss of her parents was a subliminal ache that had haunted her since her awakening into this new era, and the loss of her homeworld was too great even to think about. She might have broken down in tears again, but for the voice of the Lion. _I am with you,_ he said in the back of her mind, and she clung to that as hard as she could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has everyone seen the new trailer for season 5? I'm so excited! Is it March yet?  
> As always, a HUGE thank you to everyone who comments or leaves kudos! It makes us both so happy, and happy writers mean more storytime!


	19. Heroine, Rescue Thyself

Chapter 19: Heroine, Rescue Thyself

 

Allura was starting to get impatient. The last week or so had been very informative, even fun in spots; as durances vile went, things could have been a lot worse. Governor Sarapvet's pleasure-women were kept very well and pampered ridiculously—the accommodations were plush, the food was plentiful and delicious, there was a whole library of books and several varieties of entertainment systems to keep them occupied while the master of the house was busy. And busy he was; she hadn't seen him since the wrestling match, and Helenva hadn't been able to find out what was going on. He hadn't called for her or any of the others for several days afterward, which had annoyed Helenva a bit, since it made her job more difficult. Not impossible, of course. The Blades of Marmora were experts at espionage, and Allura could not even guess at her methods. She refused even to consider what had gone on in his private quarters when he'd summoned the tall Simadhi last night.

In the meantime, Allura had concentrated on conspiring with her fellow inmates. Meledra had told her the truth when she'd said that half of the girls here were daughters of very important families. Fully a quarter of them were royal, six were from sacred bloodlines, and the rest were of peoples who were in danger of extinction or were members of wealthy and influential families. All of them had been taken from their homes by force, and all for the purpose of keeping their peoples compliant. None of them were surprised to learn that she was a princess as well, and their sympathy warmed her deeply. She did not tell them more than that; her unusual status as a Paladin was still a secret, and the longer it stayed that way, the better. She was a little surprised at the lengths that Helenva had gone to, to ensure their escape when the time came.

“She is most clever,” Meledra told her during one of their group discussions, “this compound is very old. It was a palace once, belonging to the Sowirran Kings. Such intrigues and pageantry they had! There are many secret ways in and out, and Amalthi has found them all. We need only gather up a few valuables, open a few doors, and off we go!”

“I feel a little badly about that,” Drani-ip-Yoa, who had been the pampered child of a God-King before Sarapvet had acquired her, “theft is a sin where I come from. I might excuse it in myself, thankfully—all of the jewels we wear have already been stolen by someone else. I shall find out their provenance and return them, therefore absolving any wrongdoing.”

“It is only right,” fluted another girl, whose return to her people would be vital to preserving their genetic diversity. “You will make many friends that way. What people will not do for love nor honor--”

“They will do for treasure,” Allura said with a firm nod. “A very good friend of mine taught me that. How do you intend to get home?”

Alsarin, a young woman who had been an heiress to a vast industrial fortune, hummed thoughtfully. “Getting to the port will be no trouble, so long as we take a little care. My family had a manor here once, before Sarapvet annexed it for extra office space. I know the city well. As for further transportation, Amalthi has no family, but a great many friends. One of them has a ship big and long-range enough to do the trick. He will see to it that we return safely.”

Allura's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You trust her?”

Alsarin smiled thinly. “The reason why my family chose me as Heir-Successor of the Line Direct was that I am blessed with the talent of Discernment. I cannot be lied to. She has told us the truth thus far, and even if her friend should attempt to deceive us...” her smile widened, showing a choice selection of fangs. “There are ways. Goladra and Upoli here are also fine starship pilots.”

“We will seek to get in touch with each other again after we are returned,” Quilemne whispered with uncharacteristic fierceness, her skin rippling with subtle colors. “We will form alliances and seek to throw off Imperial control of our worlds. We will not permit such treatment of ourselves and our peoples again!”

“Hear, hear,” the others said in a soft but fervent chorus that Allura took part in wholeheartedly.

That just left the question of what to do about the guards. Most of the current troop were polite and pleasant, but even so, something would have to be done to keep them from interfering with their escape. Admittedly, most of them would be sufficiently distracted by Sarapvet's demise to neglect a suite full of harmless females, but there was always at least one who was entirely too conscientious for his own good. That was admirable in a household guardsman, but it was mightily inconvenient, and she really didn't want to have to hurt or kill that one faithful fellow. First, however, Allura had to be patient, for all that it galled her mightily. She had her team to find and the Lions to reclaim, an Empire to topple and an aftermath to manage, and she wasn't going to be able to do all that while lounging around in her underwear in someone else's private pleasure pavilion! Especially not while doing what she was doing now, which was standing beside a massage table and running a wire brush briskly through a Galra man's fur. Sarapvet's guards were allowed a few, jealously-hoarded privileges in the harem, and the occasional massage and brushing was one of them. One of the other girls was a professional masseuse, which was good, since Allura's scanty knowledge of Galran anatomy centered largely on the best places to hit them... and, of course, The Thing With The Thumbnails. At least she hadn't had to use that technique here. Sarapvet was a graying, obese, debauched old sot who liked to watch her dance, but that was about it. He was wholly fixated on Helenva, whose seven-foot-plus, sleekly-muscled body made Allura look like a twig doll.

Torozan grunted as she found another tangle in the thick thatch of fur over his shoulders; like Modhri, he was of the original people of Galran Prime, and was very furry in spots. As a result, he tended to get knots in those places where it was hardest for him to reach. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don't worry about it, Miss, keep going,” he replied in a dreamy voice. “Even with the mats being pulled out, that feels really good. My sister used to do this for me, back at home. I wish I was there.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Then why aren't you?”

Torozan heaved a long sigh. “I didn't have much of a choice. Lonoko—that's the colony where we live—isn't a rich world. It's okay for farming food and medicinal crops, but there's no metal or mineral lodes worth mining. My family isn't all that well-to-do, and our Matriarch could only afford higher schooling for the best and brightest of the family. I'm not one of them.”

“That's her opinion,” Allura said primly, although she was reminded strongly of Modhri's family situation.

Torozan chuckled. “Yeah, but since she's the boss of the Lineage, hers is the only one that matters. Then my cousin Tiall developed lung cancer when her cubs were only half-grown. It can be cured, sure, but we don't have the money for the full treatment. We had to settle for getting the doses individually, bit by bit, whenever we could spare the cash. It's keeping her alive, but she's not well, and the cancer's aggressive, and it keeps coming back. Somebody had to get a job that paid better than farming dreln fruit. The only decent-paying work that was available to those with only basic education was soldiering, and the only one who could be spared was me. I send every gac I earn home. It's helping. It's helping, but I hate being a soldier.”

Allura continued brushing him in silence for a long moment, and then made a confession that embarrassed her more than a little. “Oh, dear, I hadn't known. I'm sorry, but I sometimes have difficulty seeing Galra soldiers as... well, as people. They've always struck me as being little more than those robot things.”

Torozan rumbled a disgusted growl. “The Sentries. To tell you the truth, so do I. It gets hard to look yourself in the eye in the mirror of a morning, in case you see someone there that you don't recognize anymore. I blame the helmets, myself.”

She gazed down at him in surprise. “The helmets?”

He unfolded a long arm and tapped his helmet, which was lying on the floor beside the table with the rest of his armor. “Yup. It's the visors, especially. They protect your eyes from flash grenades and let you see in total darkness, and some of the special ones can let you see in a whole bunch of different light spectrums, but they make us all look alike. Faceless, almost. Like the Sentries. Worse, we're trained to obey commands without question, and to show no mercy to whatever enemy our commanders might point us at. Like the Sentries. We're even listed in the personnel rosters by our ID numbers, not by our names. Like the Sentries. Liana, I can't tell you how happy I was when I was posted here. It doesn't pay any better than up at the Garrison Fleet, but at least I don't have to pretend to be a machine all the time. And I can talk to someone who isn't another half-brainwashed soldier. That gets really old after a while.”

“You could always quit, you know,” Allura suggested.

Tozoran made a rude noise. “No, I can't. Well, I could. I've done the five years' mandatory service already, so I could muster out if I wanted, but my family would stake me out for the Gantars if I came home before we had enough money for Tiall's treatment. _I'd_ stake me out for the Gantars if she died because I couldn't stick it out. She's the heart of the family, and we all love her too much to let something curable take her away from us. It could be worse. I could be stuck on some ice world somewhere, protecting a load of stuff that everyone important has forgotten about. Hah. Or up against the Ghost Fleet, or face-to-face with Voltron. That thing is bad news.”

“So I've been told,” Allura said diplomatically. “Can it really slice those huge warships into little pieces?”

Torozan shuddered. “I've seen vids. Even when it's broken up into those five Lions, each one of those can slice a heavy cruiser open from bow to stern with no trouble. The Emperor wants us to catch them, but how the hell does he expect us to do that? It's hard to capture a giant robot when it's taking big chunks out of your drive section. Don't tell the guys that I said this, but sometimes I think that the Emperor has come adrift between the ears.”

“My lips are sealed,” Allura promised. “Quite a lot of people would agree with you, in any case.”

“Maybe, but saying it out loud in the wrong place can get you court-martialed or even shot, depending on how fanatical your commanding officer is. Back in basic training, there was this one guy—he'd been given the choice to either sign up or spend the rest of his life in a prison camp, and he--”

There was a warning beep from the guard's chronometer, and he sighed regretfully and pushed himself off of the table. “Back to work,” he muttered, reaching for his armor. “What a pain. Thanks for the combing, Liana, I was really starting to itch. Wow, I could knit a sweater from what you raked off of me!”

“I didn't know that you could knit, Torozan,” she said, pulling the mat of purple fur out of the brush and adding it to a respectable pile of the same.

He smiled sheepishly. “Mom taught me. Don't tell the guys, all right? It could get a little weird.”

“Of course not,” she replied primly. “Off you go.”

He donned his armor and departed the room with a nod, leaving her to dispose of the pile of shed fur and wipe down the table, which she did with dispatch. After that, she went looking for Helenva. She found the Blade apparently engrossed in one of the harem's collection of steamy romance novels, although on closer inspection, the text had very little to do with passionate groping and more about patrol routes and trade statistics. Secrets gleaned from Sarapvet's files, no doubt, hidden under a thin layer of bad smut. “Are you nearly done here?” she whispered into Helenva's ear.

Helenva nodded almost imperceptibly and whispered back, “Sarapvet won't last beyond tomorrow night. His heart is about to quit for keeps—it should have done so days ago, but I've been giving him something to keep it going because there was one more bit of information that I needed. I have that now. There is a banquet scheduled for tomorrow night, which he will honor with his usual gluttony, and then he'll want me to soothe him to sleep. I'll give him a proper sendoff, and then we can see about getting out and away. I'll drop you off at the Castle, and then see whether or not Kolivan's found something else for me to do yet.”

“At last,” Allura sighed. “I will be so glad when this is over with! I wonder if Coran's been able to find any of the others by now?”

Helenva smiled and deactivated her book, tucking the little chip into a small velvet pouch hung on her sash. “Only one way to find out. I'll go and warn the girls, and you'll want to pack up anything that you want to bring along.”

Allura looked down at the rather skimpy outfit that was the best that the harem's wardrobe could offer. “I would rather not. Like Drani-ip-Yoa, I dislike keeping stolen goods.”

Helenva chuckled. “At least take the beads. Genuine rose guenyanites, and first-quality, too. It's always nice to have something to exchange for a little extra money, if necessary.”

Allura fingered the beads, which really were very nice. “I feel a little bad about some of the guards, though. Will they be all right?”

Helenva waved a reassuring hand. “They'll be fine. You can't ask a soldier to guard someone from their own internal organs. I also managed to hack into the patrol schedule last night. We'll have a nice wide period of time to make our escape in, and the fellow who does the scheduling is well-known for being sloppy about it. I'll meet you on the moon-viewing terrace tomorrow night, so be ready. We'll make our own way out through the gardens, leave through the hidden gardener's gate I found, then get to the port as quickly as we may. Will that suit you?”

“Admirably,” Allura replied.

 

And so it was that the following night, Allura ambled casually through the common room to the moon-viewing terrace, a large open deck screened here and there with trellises supporting flowering vines. The moons were beautiful tonight, the larger, gold-tinted one looming nearly full over the horizon with the much smaller crescent of its little bluish sister superimposed on the upper right hemisphere. The night-blooming flowers were at their fragrant best, nocturnal birds and animals were calling musically in the gardens below, and the air was warm and sweet. It was beautiful, and the small part of her heart that would be forever thirteen and romantic sighed and wished for a mysterious masked hero in dark silks to come swinging in to sweep her away... she shook her head. That had been one of her favorite books once, kept hidden under her bed and smuggled out and read under the covers with a hand-glow after her parents and attendants had gone to sleep. She still had it, somewhere. It was probably still under her bed, come to think of it.

A soft footstep from behind warned her that she wasn't alone. She turned to see not Helenva, but one of the guards. Unfortunately it was Torozan, and she couldn't bring herself to simply hit him or send him away. “Hi,” he said, “couldn't sleep?”

She forced herself to smile, cursing him silently for not reading the patrol schedule properly. “It's a pretty night,” she said pleasantly.

“For some,” he said, gazing out over the gardens. “Palace guard's all riled up right now, and not just because the kitchen staff wouldn't share the leftovers from the banquet. There's been an odd ship floating around the outer orbits lately, and it's got a bad reputation.”

“Oh?” Allura said, putting on her very best innocent-maiden face.

He nodded. “Big old ship, said to be Voltron's hangout when it's not bashing up space fleets. While that thing hasn't been seen in months, nobody wants big robots crashing through town, so the defense fleet's kind of nervous.”

Allura's heart lifted like a rocket, and she had to struggle not to show it. “Oh, my!” she gasped in as empty-headed a fashion as she could manage. “Will we be safe?”

He smiled fondly at her, making her damn him silently for his concern. “We'll do our best to keep you out of any danger, don't worry about that, Miss. They haven't even--”

As soft-footed as the guard had been, he was no match for a highly-trained Blade warrior. A pair of frost-furred hands glinted out of the shadows and pressed painted nails into certain, very specific points on his neck. Torozan froze, his eyes wide in sudden terror.

“Idiot,” Helenva muttered sourly, “Torozan, what are you doing here? I know for a fact that you should have been halfway across the compound by now. Don't move or cry out, man, or your kin will have to pay for your cousin's medical expenses with your weregild.”

“You're not going to kill him, are you?” Allura whispered anxiously.

“Not if I don't absolutely have to. There aren't enough decent men left out there to go around wasting them. Torozan, I am going to offer you a couple of choices. Listen carefully, for I will not give you any other chance at survival.” Helenva drew him gently but inescapably close and murmured in his ear. “Your first choice is that I render you unconscious and leave you sitting on that bench by the trellis. You will not remember encountering us here, but you will get into trouble regardless. Sarapvet is dead, and very shortly, all of his harem girls will have escaped. I can make it look like you were drugged or knocked unconscious, which will absolve you of most of the blame. You'll certainly get a dressing-down from your sergeant. That sour old grouch hasn't delivered a good harangue in weeks, and he'll relish this opportunity.”

“And the second choice?” Torozan said in a glum whisper.

“You're a sensible fellow. I have hanging from my sash a pouch containing enough valuables to not only save your cousin's life, but to put all of her cubs through the best schools, with enough left over to improve the fortunes of your family considerably. I will give you that, and all you have to do is hurry along to your scheduled post with a convincing excuse if your absence has been noticed. If you like, you may have a premonition in a half-hour's time, and come back to discover this suite empty. Feel free to raise the alarm, for we will be quite gone by that point.”

Torozan's shoulders slumped. “You've assassinated the Governor, haven't you? Who are you working for?”

“Never you mind,” Helenva growled. “I didn't have to do a thing. He lay down on the bed while I made the usual preparations, and when I turned around, he was gone. You know how often his habits have driven his medic to tears of frustration, and he's been under considerable stress lately. I arranged a few small cosmetic details, but other than that, nothing, and the coroner will prove it. Choose, Torozan. We don't have all night.”

Torozan was silent for a long moment. “You'll make sure that the other ladies get to safety?”

“It's already taken care of,” Allura said quietly, “we'll all be fine.”

Torozan nodded, very carefully. “I'll take option number two, then. It'll give me a good excuse to quit and go home, at least, and I know a few places that'll exchange a retired soldier's loot for gac with no questions asked. Thanks for not killing me out of hand.”

She patted his cheek. “Thank my instructors. It was harder to train me not to kill than the other way around, and Liana there is far fiercer than she looks. Remember to give us a full half-hour, and then go with my blessing. Perhaps you'll be able to find a lady of your own one day, for good men should not be allowed to go to waste.”

He smiled, and bowed to her when she gave him a small but heavy pouch. “Go carefully, my Ladies, and good luck. I'm glad to have met you,” he murmured, and strode away without another word. Allura watched him go with mixed feelings, and when she turned back, the Galra woman was securing a thin but strong-looking rope to the stone balustrade. “Are you sure that we can trust him?”

Helenva nodded and tossed the line over the side, beckoning to the Princess. “I had Alsarin run her Discerning eye over him, and he is much the same sort of man that Modhri is. He will give us that time, so we had better not waste it. Let's go.”

They slid down with no trouble, Helenva turning to give the rope a good snap that caused it to come loose and drop down. She picked it up, coiled it neatly, and slung it on her sash, then took something small out of one of her other pouches. “Nearly forgot. Here, this will make it more difficult for them to track us...”

One silver-furred hand caught Allura's collar, and she saw a glint out of the corner of her eye before the collar came off. Helenva tossed it into a nearby flowering bramble and handed her the key. “Unlock mine, if you would, please.”

Allura complied, and took great satisfaction in hurling the golden circlet into a nearby pond, along with the key. Helenva gave her an appreciative smile; that particular pond was having an algae bloom at the moment, and anyone trying to find either the key or the collar would soon be coated in green slime. Grinning unrepentantly, Allura followed her friend down into the private parkland.

The gardens were extensive, with winding paths laid out in patterned brick to guide strollers along the prettiest plantings. They followed these to avoid leaving a trail, arriving at the outer wall in perhaps ten minute's time. Another few minute's walk through a simpler and better-concealed pathway brought them to a plain metal door set into the wall and hidden behind a carefully-pruned relturna conifer. “Mulch gate,” Helenva said with a smile, bringing out a decoder to deal with the lock. “Can't have the master of the house being offended by the sight of something so lowly as compost. Just give me a moment... there.”

The door opened with a slight creak; nobody was visible on the other side, and they slipped through and locked the door behind them. It led out into a small back shed piled with sacks of the aforementioned compost and other gardening necessities, then slipped out into the wider world. The wider world consisted at the moment of a more public park flanking the broad avenue that led up to the front doors of the manor. At this hour, it was deserted, or almost. Someone was coming up the road at a brisk pace, neatly dressed in a courier's uniform. As he drew closer, Allura had to grab Helenva's arm before she did something precipitous. She knew that man!

“ _Modhri?”_ she hissed.

He paused, looking around sharply at the sound of his name. “Allura?” he asked quietly, and then grunted as she caught him in an enthusiastic hug. “Hello. I was coming to rescue you.”

She giggled, very glad to see him. “We beat you to it. Sometimes the Princess gets to rescue herself, hmm?”

“You've just saved me a great deal of work, so that's fine,” he grinned, and then noticed what she was wearing. “You look very fetching in that. Is someone with you?”

Helenva slid out of the bushes with a wicked smile. Modhri stared, looking her up and down, and then up and down again because Helenva deserved a second look. She chuckled. “Is that any way for a married man to act?”

“This married man still has eyes and an appreciation for classical beauty,” Modhri said wryly. “Helenva. It's good to see you again. On vacation?”

“I am now,” she said. “Sarapvet's dead, and we were leaving before things got noisy.”

“Wise,” he granted, and gave them a half-bow. “May I offer you a ride to the Castle, ladies? The ports are being watched at the moment—someone spotted the Castle and started yelling—but courier craft still have lift priority.”

“We would appreciate it,” Helenva said.

Modhri nodded. “Good. Give me a moment to duck over to that all-night auto-tailor and get you something a little more suitable for public viewing. If you wander around town as you are right now, you'll cause a riot.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Allura said, drawing herself up proudly.

He chuckled. “The town's already tense enough as it is. You might feel in need of a punch-up, young lady, but I don't. However--” he pulled an imager from one pocket and snapped a pic of them before Allura had time to protest. “--a small riot at home is perfectly fine. How much would Lance pay to see this, do you think?”

“Whatever you charge him, I get half,” Allura snapped. “Go find me some trousers, Modhri.”

Modhri's teeth flashed in a grin, but he was away and back in a few minutes with a change of clothes for both of them. The auto-tailor must have been a very cheap one, for the trousers, hooded shirts, and simple shoes he brought them were shapeless, colorless, and flimsy, but it was better than what they had on at the moment.

“Good,” Modhri said, pulling Allura's hood up over her head. “These outfits are what the native Sowirrans have been forced to wear. No Galra official will look twice at someone wearing these, if that person already looks to be following orders. Come along, I've got a hovercar parked in the lot back there.”

Allura frowned at the baggy sleeves of her shirt as she and Helenva followed him back to the parking lot. “He couldn't get the official slave-race gear out here?”

“No, Sarapvet's just cheap,” Modhri replied absently. “It costs less to use the local textiles, so he embezzled the money and forced the natives to come up with the materials for free. He doesn't like the way the Sowirrans look, hence the hoods. The Sowirrans hate it, of course, but it's handy for us. Coran says that they used to be the greatest fashion designers in this end of space, back in the day.”

Allura smiled, remembering a time when fashion was an all-consuming passion for some of the people around her. “He's right. I used to be bitterly envious of my cousins whenever one of them got a new gown from the Sowirran Emporium down in the City, and I gloated like a Tuphoran packrat when I got my first one. I still have it somewhere.”

Modhri smiled fondly at her as they reached a particular rental car. “I'd like to see it sometime. All right, here we are. Climb in, Ladies, and strap in tight; the streets are already very tense right now, and I may have to take evasive action.”

Allura glanced back at the Governor's palace. It was ominously quiet. Quick as a wink, she grabbed the car's keys out of his hand and slipped into the driver's seat. “Get in!” she snapped over his protests. “In a very short time, the streets will be more than tense, and you're too conservative a pilot, Modhri. _Now,_ people!”

Modhri was a married man and a very well-trained one at that, and Helenva knew better than to contradict someone who could fly not only a Lion, but the Castle it rode in on. They were in the car and buckled in in seconds, and Allura had the car active and speeding down the road the moment that they were settled in. Helenva smiled at her adroit handling of the controls. “You've flown one of these before?”

“Father made sure that I understood how Galra vehicles worked,” Allura said, dodging around a delivery truck with a smooth ease that her passengers could only admire. “The controls haven't changed much since then, and I have taken care to study what has changed. How long has it been since we left, Helenva?”

“Not quite half an hour,” the Blade replied pleasantly. “Turn left here, and then right again two blocks down. The main boulevard is always a mess this time of night, and the side streets are a better bet.”

Allura made the two turns in quick succession. “Guide me. You know more about the city than I do.”

“Of course,” the two Galra said in unison, glanced at each other in mild consternation, and then Modhri deferred to Helenva with a smile. “Will you tell us the preferred escape route of a professional spy, my Lady?”

Helenva favored him with a regal nod. “Certainly. For starters, turn right at the next corner, and—ah. Prepare to break all of the traffic laws.”

Sirens were beginning to blare from the palace compound behind them, and screens were flashing into existence on every light pole; there was even a small one that popped up on the rental car's dashboard, and Allura recognized the face on it as the official who had interrupted the wrestling match.

“ _Citizens of Wirrola City,”_ he began in an angry voice, _“Governor Sarapvet has been assassinated. Terrorist activity is suspected. I repeat, terrorist activity is suspected, possibly aided by an agent of the Voltron Alliance. These females are believed to have been involved--”_ and the screen showed images of both Allura and Helenva, along with the other harem ladies, _“--who have escaped the Palace compound and are to be apprehended on sight and brought in for questioning. Port Town as well as the Port itself are now officially under lockdown until such time as these criminals are captured, and all vehicles will be stopped and searched. The Garrison Guard and the Palace Guard are assisting the City Police in the search. All citizens will comply with their orders immediately and without question, on pain of imprisonment. If anyone has been found to have assisted these criminals in any way, that person or persons will face immediate transport to the Calomyx labor camp. That is all.”_

“What a delightful fellow,” Modhri murmured with quiet sarcasm as the screen went blank.

Allura hissed. “I thought you hadn't touched him, Helenva!”

“I didn't,” Helenva growled. “That was Kazmic, Sarapvet's assistant Governor, and he's the one who's been doing all of the real work for years while his boss wallowed in luxury. He's been angling to take over Sarapvet's job, and if he can prove his worth to the Directorship with a trumped-up investigation and confessions forced from some handy suspects, then he will do his best to arrange just that. Whether or not he does take that post is immaterial; it's well known that he loathes all non-Galra and is a natural tyrant, and Kolivan intends to send one of our best assassins here to rectify the problem as soon as an opportunity presents itself.”

“Good luck to your colleague, I say,” Allura said, kicking the car into a higher gear. “For now, we must get to the Port, lockdown or no! Will Meledra and the others be all right, do you think?”

Helenva pulled a small device out of her clothing and squinted at it. “Bear left here, and follow the road over the bridge. According to this, they're already in Port Town, and progressing steadily. I made sure that they had a head start. If Alsarin is as skilled as I think she is, she'll get the others to my associate in the next ten minutes or so.”

Allura hummed under her breath as she piloted the hovercar toward the bridge, and muttered a curse when she spotted a problem. The curvature of the road allowed her to see the other end of the bridge, and what was waiting for them there. “There's a barricade up ahead,” she warned them, “and a great deal of stalled traffic. Dare we risk it?”

“Don't be silly,” Modhri said calmly, indicating one of the vehicles ahead of them. Do you see that flatbed truck there, the one with its load-bed tilted up above the cab?”

She threw him a surprised glance. “Modhri, are you telling me to use that as a ramp to leap the barricade?”

He flashed her a mischievous smile that she'd never seen him use before. “Why, yes; yes I am. We're not going to be able to get out of this city without a high-speed car chase, so why not start it on our own terms? Punch it, girl, and show me just how reckless a driver you can be. Why, I might even be required to roll down the window and fire my gun a few times. I even brought a spare, if my Lady would like to join in.”

Helenva cackled merrily, and Allura felt herself rise to the challenge. Her foot slammed the accelerator flat to the floor, and she grinned like a demon as the hovercar shot forward. A hard jerk on the control yoke had the car's repeller field striking the unsuspecting truck with a _whoosh_ that sent them skyward, gyros screaming. It wasn't quite enough of a lift to clear the barricade, and they put quite a large dent in the roof of a delivery truck on their way down, but it got them past the roadblock intact.

“A right at the next light, if you would,” Helenva said, checking the charge on Modhri's spare blaster as shouts and alarms went up behind them.

Allura sent the hovercar into a screaming turn, dodging traffic and listening to the sirens. It wasn't long before she started to see the flashing green lights of police cruisers in the rear-view screens as well, and that wasn't all. “Security drones,” Modhri said, rolling down a window.

“I've something that will handle those,” Helenva said calmly. “Bear left again and follow the road around the lake, Allura. Stay in the left lane until we're past the center island with the ugly statues, then shift right and take the tunnel road that goes through the cliff.”

Allura obligingly followed Helenva's directions, swinging the hovercar down a shallow ramp and onto what seemed to be a major thoroughfare that offered her what would ordinarily have been a stunning view. The city had been built into a sort of miniature valley where a huge rock escarpment jutted into the waters of a large lake in a series of picturesque cliffs. The starport itself had been built onto what was probably an artificial island in the center of the lake; a sensible location, especially in light of the fact that ships did not always land properly. The landing and launching yards were clearly visible from here, as were the many roads that accessed it, giving the Port the appearance of being the hub of a huge wheel. She had no time to study it further, for her view was suddenly crowded with flying machines. Drones were swarming around them now, and of several different sorts. She could recognize the simple security models like the one that Pidge had adopted, along with a number of larger and more ominous-looking constructs that looked as though they could do some real damage. At least one of them was demanding that she pull over. Helenva handed Modhri a small device, which he examined with interest, and then threw it out of the window. Something went _“vzwort!”_ behind them, and then there were no more drones.

“Nice,” Modhri said. “I used to make something like those in my senior year in the engineer training corps. My classmates and I used to drive the military police absolutely wild, and we came very close to being arrested and expelled at least twice.”

“One of those classmates of yours wound up among our ranks,” Helenva said cheerfully, “which is why we have them. He tells us that your triggering mechanism was inspired.”

“Some of my best work,” Modhri said proudly. “Does he still have my notes? I lost everything when I was demoted to lab animal.”

“I'll ask him.”

Allura tried to imagine Modhri as a brash young troublemaker, failed, and concentrated upon dodging traffic. At this time of night the roads were nearly empty, thankfully, although the road behind their car was getting more and more crowded by the moment. She could hear over the police sirens the high singing sound of hoverbike engines closing in, and knew that she would probably have to do something drastic. Or perhaps the road itself would do it for her; there were a lot of road crews on night duty for some reason, and in the finest tradition of the Streets and Sanitation Departments of any world that one would care to name, they had parked a large number of huge, awkward municipal vehicles anywhere they pleased. She was able to spot the island in the center of a large intersection that Helenva had mentioned—and she was right, those statues really were very unattractive—and slipped into the right lane, but she soon got an unwelcome surprise. “Helenva! They've blocked off the tunnel entrance for construction!”

“Keep going, those barriers are barely more than cardboard,” Helenva replied, and humphed thoughtfully. “I'd thought that they'd never hammer out who got what kickback for the contract. The cliff face must be on the verge of falling off if they've pushed the work order through this quickly.”

“The tunnel's unstable?” Allura demanded.

“Yes, and it has been for decades,” Helenva said casually, “the bureaucracy on this world is quite shockingly corrupt. Nothing gets done without a great deal of graft and quibbling.”

Modhri sighed. “I saw the cliff face as I was coming down from orbit, and the cracking is visible even at that distance. This city really wasn't designed to host a starport, and the vibrations from lifting and landing starcraft, even with the baffles and dampers, are slowly shaking the terrain apart. That and the state of most of the main roads is why I chose an all-terrain hovercar. If the tunnel fails, strike out across the lake.”

“Assuming that we aren't crushed by tons of falling rock first!” Allura snapped, wincing as the car smashed through the flimsy barrier. “This is not a getaway route that I would have chosen!”

“You're the one who wanted to drive,” Modhri chided gently.

Allura bared her teeth, ground out one of Zaianne's best swearwords, and drove on.

The tunnel was in even worse shape than she had feared. It had obviously been constructed ages ago, a huge tube drilled through solid rock by some monstrous engine and then coated with some sort of cement. Huge slabs of that cement had flaked off in spots, revealing corroding reinforcement bars and badly cracked limestone beneath; in some areas, the holes revealed that the natural stone was merely a thin shell, the lights of the port clearly visible beyond. All along the tunnel's length, and it had to be a mile or two long, this cracking and flaking was easily visible, and there were places where parts of the ceiling had come down. Worse, there were even more heavy trucks and tractors strewn around, and huge piles of supplies scattered all over the road. Allura heard Helenva mutter something about earthquake damage in the back seat, and heard Modhri's grunt of agreement. In her heart, the black Lion laughed and proposed a flight path that many would call both brilliant and insane, often in the same breath. She grinned evilly and said, “Modhri, can you see that section of wall up there, the one where those three big cracks meet?”

Modhri studied the indicated section. “I can.”

“Good. Can you hit it with a blaster bolt in the right places to bring the whole thing down?”

Modhri adjusted the output settings on his gun. “I should.”

“Good. Can you do it at high speed over rough terrain?”

“If I can't, then Helenva should be able to.”

“Good. Fire on my mark.”

Any reply he might have made was lost in a blare of noise that echoed painfully all up and down the tunnel and shook chips from the damaged walls; the authorities were still hot on their heels despite the danger. Well, they would certainly earn their hazard pay if she had anything to say about it. So thinking, she threw the complaining rental car through the maze of earthmovers and supply dumps, careening madly up the slope of the walls themselves where she had to, and exulted privately whenever she heard smashing behind her. The police vehicles might have been larger and more powerful, but hers was more agile, and she was the better pilot. She nearly wrecked them, however, when a searing lavender bolt of energy sang past the front fender.

“They're shooting at us?” she demanded indignantly, “In _here?_ Those _idiots!”_

“A calculated risk,” Helenva said, rolling down her window and returning fire. “If they don't catch us, the police chief will have their hides, and then Kasmic will have _his_ hide. So long as they're careful, they can fire at will.”

“So can we,” Modhri observed, steadying his weapon. “We're nearly to those cracks, Princess.”

“I'm aware,” Allura said tightly, fighting the control yoke as she forced the straining hovercar to do things that it was not designed to do; the gyros whined like kicked gulrops, but she made it through the maze without either wrecking or having her rear end shot off. The tunnel lay empty before her now, which was perfect. “Be ready, Modhri.”

“I am,” he replied.

She flattened the accelerator again, and yanked the control yoke hard to the left, sending the car skidding madly up the near wall just as several blaster bolts impacted on the pavement behind them. “Right there, Modhri, that spot of spalling where the three big cracks meet.”

“I see it,” Modhri answered, thumbing the gauge on his blaster to full strength.

“ _Fire!”_

Modhri fired, even as their unwise pursuers did. That weak spot was hit not only by Modhri's well-aimed blast, but by several wild shots from the less well-trained policemen. Fully half of the tunnel wall came down with a noise that beggared description, and a cloud of stone shards and rebar fragments cracked the windscreen and tore long gouges in the car's paneling. Allura didn't care, for the hovercar had parted company with the tunnel's vanished ceiling, and was now descending gracefully toward the surface of the lake. They hit the water with a splash that sent spray a hundred feet up the cliff side, and kicked up more as they sped away toward the Port.

It wasn't until they had reached the Port's docks near the center of the lake that the car finally gave up the ghost, riding up on one disused loading ramp with a dying sputter and a final  _phut_ of an engine that had given its all. Allura, Helenva, and Modhri exited, saluted the valiant vehicle, and then buried it at sea by giving it a shove that had it sinking quietly into the depths of the lake.

“So much for getting the deposit back,” he sighed, rolling his shoulder. “Good car. Allura, that was some of the most magnificently reckless driving I've seen since Jollat 'Mad-Drunk' Kor'Trellax set up a distillery in the Academy's shuttle repair yard, just after the new shipment of official training vehicles arrived.”

Allura giggled. “You're welcome. Where have you parked your shuttle, Modhri?”

Modhri turned and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Eventually, he pointed up at a forest of spires on the other side of the warehouses. “Over there, I think. We're in the Small-Traders' bloc, and the Courier pads are right across the Port from here.”

“Good enough,” Helenva said, hitching up her pants, which were a little loose on her. “Let's go, and keep an eye out for trouble. Kasmic did mention that he had the Garrison and Palace Guard watching the Port for us.”

Allura squinted up at the floodlights that illuminated the docks, and at a security cam that looked to have been hit very hard with a steel pipe some time in the past. “Do you think we might be able to turn these off? A little darkness and an electronic blackout might be to our advantage.”

Modhri humphed thoughtfully, and quirked his eyebrows at Helenva. “Good idea. Helenva, did your studies include this port, and if so, where are the power mains?”

Helenva turned and indicated a small building off to their right. “They did, and I can offer better. The Port runs on a utility grid that is completely separate from the rest of the city, originally a security measure that kept the local governments from getting everything all their own way. That was before the Empire discovered them, of course. Before the last of the Sowirran resistance groups were rounded up, one of them managed to rig a self-destruct switch to an old emergency shutoff in the power grid here. Not only will it kill the entire port's power, it will do so permanently—the switch is wired to the Port's main power core in such a way as to send it into a terminal overload cycle which will annihilate the entire Port and everything around it. We've never managed to figure out the trigger.”

Modhri stared thoughtfully into space for a moment. “Show me.”

 

A short time later, Modhri and Allura were peering into the guts of a small but frighteningly complex device in the basement of the small building, which had turned out to be an abandoned office of some sort. It was a repository for dockworker's clutter now, and they'd had to fight their way through heaps of old junk to find the switch, which had been wired into a great twist of cables in a damp little room in the basement.

“Mad tech,” Modhri muttered, prodding a widget with a screwdriver, “possibly one with a touch of Technomagery. Very skilled work, very delicate, and potentially devastating. I've seen something like this before, but I can't think where.”

Allura squinted at the switch's innards. “You're right. It _does_ look familiar, but... ah. Are we near Cleondram, by any chance?”

“About twenty light-years from the core world itself,” Helenva said, watching them with interest. “Why?”

“When I was small, they had only just joined Father's Kingdom, and they were famous for their wonderful mechanical toys. Their Ambassador presented me with one of their most exclusive music boxes as a way to curry favor with my mother. The outer casing was of carved crystal, so I could see all of the working parts inside. I used to sit and watch and listen to it for hours. This is much like that.”

“You know, you're right,” Modhri said. “Lizenne's grandfather had an antique Cleonian clock with the same sort of case, and he caught me a whack across the backside with his cane when he caught me poking at it once. That old man left a bruise on my rump that made sitting a tricky proposition for a week. Lizenne gave him hell for that, which is another reason to love her. Didn't stop me from studying those mechanisms, either. The heart and core of them were these little perpetual-motion engines—once started, they never stopped.”

Allura smiled. “Yes, like in my music box! I remember watching it pulse, like a tiny heart. Oh, look right there, isn't that one of them? It's hidden behind this flange here.”

Modhri had to unscrew another portion of the device to get a good look, but he had to agree with her. “You're right. I've never seen one that small. Whoever made this thing was an artist, and it's probably worth more than the _Chimera's Clutch_ is. Still inactive, which... oho! Look at that. See how it's wired into that transformer system?”

“Ingenious,” Allura breathed. “The engine would steadily increase the load on the power core... exponentially, I believe, which would melt all of the cable mains around it, and it couldn't be stopped because the engine itself is perpetual-motion, and in a very short time it would have pushed the core past the containment measures. That's clever.”

“Yes, especially if your mechanics have never seen or heard of a particular, very exclusive brand of luxury goods.” Modhri smiled and gently extricated the Cleonian engine from the switch, and then slipped it into his pocket. “Might come in handy later. All right, let's just reconnect the leads here... and _here..._ there. You may safely pull the switch, my Lady.”

Allura did so, and heard a deep, distant, descending whine as the solitary light fixture in the room went dark, leaving only Modhri's little battery-powered utility light gleaming in the room. By the light of that, the wonderful man detached the handle of the mechanism and threw it into the mass of litter that had piled up in the far corner of the room. Helenva chuckled. “May I offer to recruit you into the Blade of Marmora, Modhri?”

His golden eyes twinkled humorously at her as he packed up his tools. “You may, but I must decline. I have duties to my wife and to my nieces and nephews that I will not abandon. I will, on the other hand, be happy to teach any who ask.”

“We saw him first, Helenva, he's ours,” Allura said primly, causing the taller woman to laugh. “Now, let's get off of this rock so that I may congratulate Lizenne upon her excellent taste in men.”

“Another good idea,” Helenva said, and turned to climb the stairs.

The change in the port was dramatic. It is astonishing how quickly a thriving business center can turn into a ghost town when the power goes off, although in this case, the town was far from deserted. They heard shouts in the distance, and police sirens, the roar of vehicle engines, and one or two sharp crackles from a blaster. “Confusion to the enemy,” Allura heard Modhri mutter in satisfaction. “This way, Ladies.”

Their timing was good, as it turned out. The two moons were setting, casting the darkened Port even deeper into shadow, allowing them to slip past patrols that were still struggling with dead equipment and angry aliens. Once out of the Small-Trader's bloc, which had apparently fallen into disuse when the Empire had taken over the bulk of the planet's trade centers, the streets were full of furious offworlders. Port Town truly was a small city in its own right, with its own hotel, residential, mercantile, supply-and-service, and legal organizations, and absolutely all of them resented being locked out of their work and searched into the bargain. The sudden blackout hadn't helped at all, and in several places, the crowds were perilously close to rioting. Despite their orders, the authorities suddenly had no time for anything other than trying to keep the peace. It was simplicity in itself to slip around the trouble spots, and they were able to reach the Courier bloc without trouble.

“Which one's yours?” Helenva asked, scanning the field of small, fast ships; there were numerous varieties, ranging from a few tiny Vritti shuttles to a hulking Ilparon packet-sloop.

“Hanifor shuttle, third row back and sixteenth from the left,” Modhri replied. “Capable of seating four, and it has a nice set of guns that will come in handy if the Garrison Fleet gets suspicious. I think that I can see it from here, so how about we--”

“ _Halt!”_ a booming voice interrupted him, making them all jump and whirl around. _“Stay where you are and surrender now._ Now, _I said, or we will open fire!”_

They saw no one, but a sudden flare of brilliant white light lit up a cluster of ships much further down the line, followed by a shriek of outrage, and then the lesser flashes and crackles of blaster fire struck strange shadows from the darkened launching pads. Something on Helenva's person went  _bleep,_ and she cursed. “Damn. That's a distress signal from Ledrast. The girls must have gotten held up somehow. They should have been safely away already.”

“We must help them!” Allura said, her eyes daring her companions to protest.

“No argument there,” Modhri said, checking the charge on his gun. “Let's give your friends a hand, shall we?”

Helenva nodded, and they turned and ran toward the noise.

The fight was taking place in an odd, crowded corner of the docking yards, where large freight shuttles were loaded and unloaded. When Allura had shut down the Port's power, she had also shut down the big hauling drones that carried the freight from shuttle to warehouse and back, and several of them now lay on their sides in the street with their loads spilling all over the pavement. Huddled behind one of those were the defenders, who were doing their best to fight back against a large mixed troop of guards and Sentries with a few blasters that they'd somehow managed to get ahold of. Allura hissed angrily and looked around for a weapon that she could use, and then seized upon the nearest opportunity; a bale of six-foot-long duralloy rebar rods had split and scattered themselves right across the road when the cargo drone had fallen, and she eagerly grabbed up one of the heavy metal bars and sprang forward to do battle. A Sentry fell before her, cranial unit smashed, and then another, and a third before the enemy realized what was happening, and then they had two expert marksmen to deal with as well. Allura was drunk on her people's equivalent of adrenaline, and her makeshift quarterstaff whirled and lashed out with terrific force to destroy and disable.  _How dare they,_ she thought, if she thought at all,  _how_ dare _they shoot at her friends, her fellow exiles! How dare they visit such ungentlemanly behavior upon innocent young women, women who had already been torn from their homes and families by a debauched tyrant!_ Her rage knew no bounds, and she might have flattened them all if she hadn't slipped on a broken bottle of kitronel oil. Very high-end stuff, very fragrant, and highly prized by master chefs and perfumers the universe over, but very, very slippery. The rod flew out of her hands as she skidded forward, landing with a squeak of dismay right in the arms of the troop's commander. A split second later, she felt the muzzle of his blaster press up against the back of her head.

He laughed breathlessly. “Stand down, all of you, or she dies. I see you two in the shadows, there. Drop the weapons, or--”

There was a sudden  _“vworp”_ sort of sound that Allura recognized as coming from a stun pistol, and her captor suddenly went limp, sagging to the ground like a heap of wet towels. Allura looked up to see a tall figure step out of the shadows, one that she recognized.  _“Torozan?”_

He nodded, tossing the stun pistol away and raising both hands to show that he was unarmed. “Me. Tell that big guy behind me not to cut my head off, all right? I'm not going to sound any more alarms.”

Allura looked up and glared at the huge Blade that had appeared out of the darkness as if by magic behind Torozan; the Blade glanced over her head at Helenva, shrugged, and sheathed his sword. Allura took a deep breath and wiped at her damp face with a torn sleeve and asked, “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be dancing attendance on Kasmic?”

Torozan vented a dry laugh. “Hardly. When he found out that I wasn't at my assigned post during that crucial hour, and that somebody'd fiddled with the patrol schedule, he blamed the whole operation on me. I had to knock him cold and escape through the secret tunnels. Turned out to be the same one these ladies took—I've been following their trail. Not before going through his personal computer, though.”

“Oh?” Allura said, noting that the other girls were watching them cautiously. “To erase yourself from the system, I assume.”

Torozan nodded. “He's a vindictive bastard, and I didn't want him sending the Ghamparva after my family—the Governors can do that if they've got evidence of treason. I wiped my records, all right, but that wasn't all I saw in there. You're Princess Allura, aren't you? You're with the Paladins of Voltron.”

“I am,” she said firmly. “Had he found me out, then?”

“It was the wrestling match that did it,” Torozan informed her. “He'd known that Sarapvet had picked up another expensive pet—sorry, his term, not mine—and he wanted a look at you so that he could prove that his boss had been smuggling Class-X Restricted Goods out of an interdicted System, right under the Emperor's nose. If he'd been able to prove that, then Sarapvet would've been called back to the Center to answer for that crime, and everyone knows that that's a one-way trip. Every living Altean is registered as the personal property of Zarkon himself, and not only does he not hand them out lightly, but they're kept under very close watch when they're taken offworld. The last Altean to leave Quolothis was a male, and that was over fifty years ago. If Kasmic had managed to get his hands on you, Princess, he would have tortured you until he had enough information to capture... well, everything. It's not the Paladins that matter to the Emperor. It's the Lions.”

Allura shuddered. “I'm aware. That does not explain why you have decided to help us.”

Torozan sighed and rubbed tiredly at his face. “Because I hate the military, and what it's been doing at the Emperor's command. Because I didn't like my bosses. Because you and the other ladies were kind when you didn't have to be. Because you and Amalthi spared my life, and have probably saved my cousin's life. Because I'm just a little bit in love with Amalthi.” He smiled wistfully at the Galra woman, and Allura wondered how she could ever have thought him unattractive. “Hopelessly, of course. She hasn't found the right man yet, and won't find him here. Mostly because I wanted to ask you for a ride. If I stay on this world, I'm dead, and so are the rest of my kin. Possibly the whole neighborhood, if the Ghamparva are feeling grumpy that day.”

Helenva vented a soft chuckle. “Torozan, you are a fool, but a lucky one. Alsarin, what do you hear?”

“Truth. Every word of it,” Alsarin said, queenly despite her smudged face and torn silks. “Will the ship hold one more passenger, Sir Blade?”

“Should be able to,” the massive warrior rumbled thoughtfully and cocked an ice-blue glance at Helenva. “You going with the Princess?”

“I think so,” Helenva replied, “If only to touch base with our agents there. Just drop him off at Lonoko, alive and well, and all will be made even. You still have that pouch I gave you, Tozoran?”

He patted one pocket with a smile. “Right here. Made sure to pick it up before I left, along with what pay I earned this month. Thank you, Amalthi, Princess. I promise not to say a word about this to anyone, not until... well, not until after Voltron's done what it needs to do. Maybe not even then.”

Allura smiled. “I am sure that we will be able to trust in your discretion. Good luck, Torozan, I wish you luck and good health for your family.”

“Thank you again,” he said with one last lingering look at Helenva. “Now let's all lift off before some other nosy creep decides to see what all the noise was about.”

That was the best suggestion that anyone had heard all night, so the two parties made hasty farewells and hurried to their respective ships. Both craft lifted well despite the howls of protest from the still-dark Port Control Tower, and the Garrison Fleet, surprised by the sudden launches and unable to make contact with the Port authorities, were not able to catch them. On the whole, Allura thought as the very welcome sight of the Castle and the _Chimera_ filled the forward screens, it had been a quite interesting adventure. Interesting or no, the feeling of intense relief that bubbled up inside her once she set foot back inside the familiar halls of the Castle nearly overwhelmed her, and she had to fight down tears of joy when she heard Coran's voice over the PA system welcoming them back. They escaped anyway, when the mice scampered up to welcome her home, and were followed by more when Tilla and Soluk galloped up to sniff her all over, whurfling eagerly, and licking her face in welcome. Before long, she found herself being hustled gently up to the bridge so that Coran could put his worries to rest.

“Princess!” he cried anxiously when she and her companions entered the room, and he scrambled over to inspect her for damage. “You're all right, aren't you? Let's see... both arms still attached, check. Both legs still attached, check. Eyes, ears, nose, hair—oh, what about your toes?”

“I'm fine, Coran,” Allura laughed, pushing him away gently and leaning on Tilla's arm. “I have all of my parts, and before you ask, _no,_ I wasn't forced. I'd love a bath, though, and breakfast, and a nap. It has been a long night.”

“You'll get all of that, plus a scolding,” Zaianne said, leaning on the pilot's posts and shaking a finger at her. “What have I told you about rushing stupidly into dangerous situations, young lady?”

Allura winced. “Sorry, sorry, I hadn't expected things to go that badly. Have you been able to locate any of the others yet?”

Zaianne sniffed. “More or less. Pinpointing their locations will be your job, since you were silly enough to lose them.”

“All right,” Allura said with a tired sigh. “Just let me up on the dais and—oh!”

She had tried to push away from Tilla's arm, but the cheap, thin fabric of her outer clothing had gotten caught on the dragon's sharp scales and spines, and when she tried to pull loose, the already rather tattered outfit tore away like tissue paper, revealing the pretty but very brief silks beneath. There was a choking sound from Coran, who looked torn between admiration and outrage.

Allura heard Modhri chuckle behind her. “Cleans up well, doesn't she?” she heard her adoptive uncle say.

Coran deflated with a sigh and twiddled his mustache philosophically. “Yes, she does, actually, and I shouldn't really be surprised. This is another fine old tradition—not just for Paladins, but for the royal family, harems being popular perks of the high and mighty throughout galactic history. Why, quite a number of your ancestors wound up in seraglios in several different roles, including your own parents, Princess, although it was generally very hard to find old Alfor a pair of harem pants that fit right. Your mother was quite fond of seeing him in sheer silk, I know that.”

Allura had had a very long day. She was tired, hungry, dirty, smelly, and bruised. Over the course of the past week or so, she'd been enslaved, confined, and lusted after; she had made a number of friends and vital diplomatic contacts that would come in handy later, she had escaped a vile fate, caused significant damage to a major roadway, survived a car chase that could very easily have killed her, and had crippled an entire spaceport with the flip of a switch. She did not need a mental image of her noble sire attired in a harem outfit and draped suggestively over her beloved mother's lap on top of that, but was too tired to do more than kick her loyal retainer in the shin and try for a bond-check while he hopped about the room, clutching at his leg and yelping.

“Hunk is the closest,” Allura said with admirable calm. “He's fine. The others are alive and whole, still, although we should not waste any time in retrieving them.”

Zaianne nodded and indicated the starmap. “We helped Lizenne scry for them earlier; Hunk's on Rociaport, which is a new mining colony right over... here. It'll take us a little time to get there—we have to move carefully, since we've already kicked up a fuss getting you back, and we may need him to help rescue Khaeth and Lance. Go and refresh yourself, by all means. I'll want to catch up on events with Helenva in private, anyway. Oh, and Allura?”

Allura looked up at her warily. “Yes?”

Zaianne grinned at her. “You look stunning in that. Do keep it around for later use, hmm? It's always good to have a weapon of mass distraction on hand.”

Allura giggled and headed for her room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I just want to say thank you to everyone who leaves comments and kudos. I know I say this a lot, but I really mean it. Spanch and I wouldn't get nearly as much enjoyment out of sharing our work without all your kind encouragements. Please keep feeding us, and we'll continue giving you space opera.
> 
> Second, I have a rant. Just a tiny one, I promise. I read a lot of fanfiction, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. And in doing so, I have discovered a slight pet peeve. I don't know if it's because of autocorrect, or spellcheck just doesn't catch it, or English not being the first language of the writers, or if a lot of writers truly don't know the difference (I really hope it's not the last because that makes me lose faith in the literacy of the human race) but lately I've noticed that a LOT of fic writers seem to have trouble with the difference between the words "dessert" and "desert". And mostly, that's okay. I know what they intended to say, and I also know that it's silly to expect the level of editing from a fanwork that one does a professionally written novel. But....I'm sorry people, reading about the Paladins discovering the Blue Lion in the middle of a pastry doesn't have the same drama and impact as finding it in a cave in a barren wasteland.   
> I'll admit that the mental image of Blue popping out of a giant cake is funny, though. In fact, I DARE someone reading this to write that. I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU.
> 
> *phew* Okay, rant over. Thanks again for reading, and see you all next time!


	20. Tickets To Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kokochan: I'm gonna get up early and post this in the morning so that I don't have to rush right before work!  
> Kokochan's exhausted-from-nightshift brain: LOL nope.
> 
> *sighs* Eh, it's morning somewhere, right? Hunk's adventure today!

Chapter 20: Tickets To Freedom

 

The so-called junk pile in the back lot was nothing of the sort in Hunk's eyes. He had seen it as a veritable dragon's hoard of useful machinery, not nearly so high-end as the mess in Clarence's basement deck had been, but entirely suitable to the purpose at hand. Eight or nine separate businesses had been dumping outdated machinery there for years, just as Medrok had said, and most of it was still in pretty good shape. What little of it that was too busted-up to repurpose was a gold mine for parts. Right now, he was converting an old pilot-training simulator into a virtual-reality racing game. The memory core still had three intact modes: hoverbus, atmospheric shuttle, and short-range spacecraft, which would soon become crazed road race, aerial dogfighting, and orbital pirate-hunting. Since the sim had been built for two students, there could be match games or copiloting options. He wished that Pidge was here, though. She would have had a blast fiddling with the programming, and she was better at it than he was.

It had been a huge job, turning all of that junk into the best array of arcade games in the world—literally, as it turned out; Medrok had checked, and there were no other arcades—but they wouldn't have to do it alone. Medrok might have been unlucky in his family, but he was fortunate in his friends, and four in particular had grabbed hold of the idea and had piled in with enthusiasm. Round, cheerful Valce wasn't terribly skilled with computer systems, but he was a wizard with power tools, and he always knew exactly where to find good-quality materials at the lowest possible prices. Taller, slimmer Lorrost was just about able to hold things steady while other people secured them, but he could tickle any old computer program into doing new things. Kasten, a gangly lad with more than a little Kedrekan blood in him, had magic hands where it came to improvising with non-standard parts. Lituya, the daughter of one of the antique shop owners, had a head full of inspirations, a fine eye for detail, an instinct for efficient management, and an artistic bent that none of the rest of the group had.

Hunk had noticed that Galra eyes saw much better in dim light than Humans did, which was good—ticket arcades were always kept dark to play up the blinking lights on the games themselves, the better to lure in customers. Humans liked bright colors, but Galra preferred a darker and subtler range, especially toward the purple end of things. After Kasten, Lorrost, and Valce had finished putting up the wall paneling (once Hunk had relaid something like two or three miles' worth of power leads), Lituya had spent some time carefully spraying every flat surface—walls, ceiling, floor—with wild swirls of very interesting paint. It was a little like the reflective stuff that road crews used to draw street lines back home, but brighter and in a lot more colors, and whenever someone turned a light on, the whole room lit up with gemlike, prismatic fire. The LED knitter, an old machine-lace production unit that Kasten had reworked in order to be able to handle glow-thread in particular had caught her fancy, and it wasn't long before she'd tickled the thing into producing wonderful, luminous tapestries and banners to decorate the place. Best of all, Medrok and his friends had been perfectly willing to learn, even from a purchased offworlder.

They'd all had basic machinist's training in school, which seemed to be a mandatory course for colonial teaching establishments, but they'd never even considered doing what Hunk was doing now. They learned fast, though, and were turning out to be a great help, and had some very good ideas. The candy-sculpting machine, for example. He'd mentioned 3D food printers to Lorrost, who had taken the idea and run with it. There had been an old nutrifabber in the pile that was still in decent condition, which Valce had been hoping to steal for himself. Valce's father ran the fast-food place down the block and could have used the extra unit, and they got into quite an argument before Lituya had told them to shut up and turn it into something that would help Medrok, which was the whole point of the exercise. Kasten had pulled the design engine out of a ruined architect's drafting table for them, and after a little work on Hunk's and Lorrost's part, the end result was a machine that could turn raw confectionery media into any shape that its operator could think of. That had been only the start, but it was a good start, and there were definite signs that they were on a roll.

Hunk straightened up from setting in the last bit of wiring for his current project and sat back. “Okay, give it a try.”

Medrok slipped a couple of coins into the sim's slot, and everybody smiled as the machine came alive with a gleam and a glitter of bright lights and glow-thread tapestry, the screens coming alight with dramatic video clips of each game mode in the finest arcade fashion. “It works!” Valce said happily. “Looks good, too. Let's try this thing out some, Medrok, I've been balancing the counterweights on those pinball machines all morning. Dad sent over some snacks, Hunk, so take a break for once.”

“Thanks,” Hunk said, and left the others to it.

In truth, he was glad for the rest. Over the past six or seven days, they'd reduced the junkpile in the back lot to a few, much smaller piles in one corner, and at the rate they were scavenging things out of those, they'd soon run out of junk. That was all right. The local recycling plant had been happy to take what little they hadn't been able to use, and the lot itself had all sorts of possibilities. Kasten wanted to put in a targeting range, although Lorrost thought that an obstacle course would be more fun. Valce was all in favor of a laser-tag arena, while Lituya was of the opinion that a zero-G tank would be just the thing. All of those things required equipment and systems that Medrok's rather thin budget simply didn't have room for, so it would have to wait until after he'd started making a decent profit. As it was, what money they'd been able to save through salvage had largely been taken up by the prizes.

Hunk glanced over at the exchange counter, most of which had come out of the clearance stock in Lorrost's uncle's furniture store. It had originally been intended for a big jewelry emporium that was supposed to have opened up a few doors down two years ago, but the deal fell through when the company got into an argument with the local unions. The huge, sturdy, fantastically-shaped string of display cases had sat gathering dust in the warehouse ever since, taking up space and being ignored by customers until Lorrost's uncle had essentially let the boy buy it for a handful of pocket change. It was now loaded with interesting toys, gadgets, handheld games, and other items, and shelves above the counter were piled with the really good stuff. Medrok had shown real genius there, having gone around to the various high-quality toy- and electronics stores in the area and arranged for inexpensive but fascinating stock.

A whoop from Lituya made him look around, and he couldn't help but smile at that. Medrok had just put his simulated pirate-hunter through a series of maneuvers that had won him victory on that level, and the machine whirred and spat out a string of tickets. Medrok was grinning too, and looking up at Lituya like an eager puppy. It was no secret to Hunk that Medrok was sweet on the pretty girl, and that, undersized or not, she liked him right back. Whether or not they'd be able to pursue that relationship with the looming specter of Medrok's grandmother hanging around was debatable. The evil-tempered old woman seemed to be determined to foil any attempt at happiness that Medrok might make. She'd dropped by a few times to check up on the boy's progress, stared at the growing collection of arcade games with blank incomprehension, snarled a few impolite comments, and had left, leaving a cloud of doom behind her that had been difficult to dispel. Hunk had asked what her problem was, and had gotten an answer that had made him very grateful for his own forceful but loving grandma.

“ _She blames me for my parents' deaths,”_ Medrok had explained a few days ago in a quiet, level voice that had had all of the tears wrung out of it long ago. _“She's old-fashioned in some ways, and it used to be thought that birthing a runt was unlucky. Mother wouldn't let her get rid of me, thankfully, but she was forever nagging at my parents about it. Mom eventually let her business partner convince her to go on a solo vacation to Leoponset to get some relief from Grandmother's sniping. Halfway through her stay there, there was a riot—the natives were getting upset about how they were being governed again, and Mom was among the two hundred and seventy-one victims. Dad suicided only a week later. By that time, I was too old to legally euthanize, and she was obligated to see to it that I survived to adulthood. She could still lay blame and teach my siblings that I was bad luck to be around, though, and she's allowed to sell me to the Military if I'm not able to profit my Lineage in any other way.”_

Fortunately, Lituya's parents didn't share his grandmother's views, nor did the families of the other boys, and they had provided comfort where there was none at home for him. Medrok was what Hunk's father had called a “stray kitten”, a child who was so unwelcome at home that the neighbors had to do the parenting. Hunk himself had known one—a skinny, nervous boy who had been folded gently into one of his friends' families when his own parents had left the area under circumstances that the other adults still didn't like to discuss. He watched as Lituya rested a hand on Medrok's opposite shoulder and cheered him on through the next level. He'd seen that gesture many times before; Lizenne did it to Modhri when she was feeling possessive and Zaianne held Keith close to her whenever the opportunity arose. Medrok would be fine. As nasty as his grandmother was, Lituya was a spitfire under that sweet exterior, and the inevitable clash of wills would probably leave a mark on the surrounding landscape that would be visible from space.

He shifted on his seat and picked up another lelosha wrap. They were a specialty of Valce's father's eatery and were delicious, sort of like eggrolls with extra crunchy things in them. Seeing that his boss and his friends were totally engrossed in their game, Hunk closed his eyes and took a moment to check on the others through the Lion-bond, which he did every so often. Pidge was sound asleep. Keith was still angry, this time for someone else's sake. Lance had his full attention focused on something, and he was putting his heart into it. Allura... Allura was very happy! He concentrated on that, getting a faint impression of a damp feeling all up one side of her face. Hunk smiled. He knew that sensation very well, having experienced it multiple times before himself. She'd made it back to the Castle, and one of the dragons was slurping her face. It was only a matter of time before they found him now, with the Princess to guide them in.

“Communing with your food, or just falling asleep?”

Hunk grunted in surprise and looked up; Medrok had given over his seat in the piloting sim to Lituya, who was currently burning up the airways in a fighter jet. “A little of both,” Hunk replied. “I was up all night calibrating the dance machines, and Valce's dad makes great wraps. These are seriously worth communing with. That's another thing we could do with the back lot—roof it over and turn it into a dining area. Does Valce's dad have a trainee cook he can spare?”

Medrok smiled and sat down next to him. “I'm sure that we could work something out with him. It's a good idea, but we don't have the money yet. We will, though. There's been a lot of interest.”

Hunk took a big bite of his wrap and considered that. “I'm just having a little trouble with the fact that there aren't any other places to go for entertainment around here. Are we really the only one?”

Medrok nodded. “This is a mining town, and a very new colony. Great-grandfather moved the family here when it first opened; he was a senior mining engineer, specializing in rare-earth elements, and the Colonial Commission made him a very good offer. We simply haven't had the time, idle population, or energy to spare for entertainment centers until very recently, and something simple, cheap, and kid-friendly is very attractive.”

Hunk could see that. “Lots of youngsters and teens all of a sudden?”

“Getting bored and looking for trouble,” Medrok said, “so we'll give them something else to do. This was a good idea. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Hunk finished his wrap and handed one to Medrok. “When do you think we'll be able to open for business?”

Medrok took a bite out of his wrap and looked around at the glittering venue with an appraising eye. “At the rate we've been working at? Another day, maybe two. I'm surprised that none of us have collapsed from exhaustion, we've done so much in such a short time. Grandmother doesn't know what to think.”

Hunk snickered. “Good. Whatever keeps the Wicked Witch of the West off of your back.”

Medrok nodded. “Confusion to the enemy. We still have a little junk and some space along the walls left. Any more ideas for games?”

“One or two,” Hunk said, “and maybe we can put a coin slot in the LED knitter so that the kids can design some glowing jewelry. Bracelets and things. Where I come from, the little girls love that sort of thing. Small boys, too.”

Medrok looked thoughtful. “Not a bad idea. I know a few adults who'd like that as well. Glow-thread's cheap, and Kasten knows the manufacturer. Want to go and see what's left in the piles?”

Medrok wanted more than that, Hunk realized, and he didn't want to involve his friends. Hunk looked over at the sim, where all four of them were engrossed in the players' prowess. That was going to be a very popular system with the neighborhood kids, he knew. “Sure. The salvage guys are going to pout if we use it all up.”

Medrok smiled. “Let them. They could have come and cleared the yard out long ago, and didn't. Their sloth is our gain.”

 

There really wasn't much left in the piles, and the piles weren't big. Hunk and Medrok sorted patiently through them in the waning late-afternoon daylight. “Anything?” Medrok asked.

“Well, I've got a big display case here,” Hunk said, pulling out a glass-fronted rectangular box with a big crack in it. “If we've still got some of the wall paneling and a sheet of flex-glass left, it's got possibilities. Is that bucket of ball-bearings still over there, and the big box of nails?”

“Yes, and nobody's kicked them over yet.”

Hunk pulled a few more bits and pieces out of the nearest heap. “Good. I think that I can put together a pachinko machine. Those are classics back home, and impossible to cheat at.”

“Nice. The local hackers will take that as a challenge, you know.”

Hunk grinned at him. “They're going to be disappointed. It's a purely mechanical system, and the only way to hack it is with an axe. Hand me that big spring? Thanks. I'll get Lituya to decorate it after I've finished building it. I think we've still got some of that reflective paint. I'm no good at art.”

“That's the only thing you're not good at. Hunk...” Medrok sighed. “What are you?”

Hunk looked up at him in surprise. “Huh? I'm Human, Medrok. I think I've told you that already.”

The young Galra shook his head. “I've been doing some research, trying to find your homeworld on the Imperial Database. It's mentioned, briefly, as a fringe planet under consideration. Your people don't have starflight yet, and we're not even in the same galaxy as your home system. You're certainly not listed as an aetherically-able people.”

“It's a long story,” Hunk said cautiously, and then frowned. “Wait, aetherically-able?”

Medrok waved a hand at the pile of scrap. “I've gotten into the habit of staying quiet and watching people. I've seen you mold solid metal with your bare hands, Hunk, and lengthen wires, and make adjustments to things that should have taken a machine shop to do. I repeat: _what are you?”_

Hunk rubbed at his face with the back of his hand. This was a risk, but he liked Medrok, he really did, and trusted him. “My aunt says I'm a technomage on the hardware side. It's rare.”

Medrok snorted. “Rare, he says. Hunk, there is only one other known technomage of any power in the known universe, and that's the Green Paladin!”

“Pidge, yeah. Haggar's been doing her best to destroy her. I don't think that she knows about me yet.”

Medrok stared at him in unabashed astonishment. “You know her? Wait... you're a Paladin too. Yellow one, right?”

“Yeah. How'd you guess?”

“We know the old legends too, and what the Lions tended to look for, and what they could give their pilots. Dad knew all the stories.” Sorrow flickered over Medrok's face briefly, but he shook it off and continued. “The green Lion wanted smart pilots. The yellow one looked for big friendly ones. You've been that, even when you should have fought me every step of the way. What in the name of Kuphorosk's Underpants are you doing all the way out here, building... what was it... pachinko machines in a ticket arcade?”

Hunk tugged at his collar. “Like I said, we got kidnapped by pirates. Pidge has been with the Ghost Fleet for half a year now, and we were trying to get her to come back, and we made kind of a mess of it.”

“This, I have got to hear,” Medrok said, and shivered a little in the cool evening breeze. “Inside. If you're going to keep me up all night with heroic tales, we might as well get a start on this pachinko thing while we're at it.”

“Okay,” Hunk said agreeably, lifting the display case. “I'm going to need your small hands for the fiddly parts, anyway.”

The others had gone home when they came back inside, leaving a note taped to the snack table saying that they'd be back in the morning. Hunk and Medrok laid the parts down on a nearby worktable and started in on their project while Hunk told him exactly how and why a quintet of oddly-assorted teens had gotten themselves into such an odd fix. Medrok listened with a fascinated expression and quivering ears, and it was indeed quite late when Hunk had finished.

“Not going to tell anyone, are you?” Hunk said after a moment, screwing a small part to the framework they'd constructed.

“Don't be silly,” Medrok said rather breathlessly, twirling a small socket wrench in his fingers. “Grandmother wouldn't believe me. Neither would the authorities. Even if they did, they'd keep you under wraps for the sake of your talents. Or, if Grandmother was in a really bad mood, she'd sell you to the Druids. I refuse to have that on my conscience, and anyway, why would I? In the old legends—and I think we're in one right now—this sort of thing only happened when the time was right. The Lions had _ten thousand years_ to summon new pilots in, and only now have they done so. I'm not going to get in your way.”

“Really?” Hunk asked.

Medrok swallowed hard and picked up one of the pachinko cups, a clever little thing shaped like a flower, and spread and closed its petals in a nervous gesture. “Zarkon has to be stopped,” he said in a dry whisper, as though afraid that someone might hear him. “The Empire does not treat its subjects well. My parents died because one of his Governors had been abusing the natives, and I know that that's not the worst of it. Hundreds of peoples—whole races—have died out because they weren't interested in doing what he told them to do, and hundreds more are almost extinct or are enslaved...”

“And we put him flat on his back for the first time in ever. Yeah, I know.” Hunk scowled darkly at the half-built mechanism on the table. “We all know what's going to happen to the Galra when we've gotten rid of him for good. And Haggar and Lotor, too. We're going to try our best to keep everybody from wiping you guys out, but it's not going to be easy. There isn't a native race here, is there?”

“No, but we're too close to a lot of other planets that do have them.” Medrok growled, eyes flashing with unexpected determination. “I'm going to make this business work, and save every gac I earn, and I'm going to buy a ship. If things go as bad as I think they will, I'm going to take any family member and friend who wants to leave and head straight for Namtura. If Grandmother won't fly on the same ship as a mere runt, then she can stay here to face what's coming.”

Hunk reached over and patted his shoulder. “That's the spirit. Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

Medrok laughed. It was a dry, withered little sound, but it was a laugh. “It does. I don't know why, but it does. I need to get some sleep. How much longer do you think that you'll be allowed to stay here?”

Hunk paused to check his Lion-bond again, and found Allura burning with impatience. “Not long. Maybe a day or two. Hey, maybe I can get the guys to help with the grand opening.”

Medrok crossed his arms on the table and rested his head down upon them, dissolving into overtired chortles. “That would be memorable. Sure, why not?”

 

It was dawn on Rociaport when a sleek shuttle of unfamiliar design landed at the starport there, and an odd little group disembarked for a leisurely amble through the town. Four women, one of whom had a wealth of long white hair despite being quite young, and three men, one with a fearsome mustache and hair that had been dyed a peculiar orange color. Coran hadn't used his people's innate ability to change shape and color in a very long time and was out of practice, so he simply put on an expression that dared onlookers to comment on his fashion sense. Oddly enough, it seemed to be working. The locals might give him funny looks, but he was damned if he was going to let Allura out of his sight again. Lizenne had shifted her own apparent age to something closer to Allura's and had lengthened her hair a little, and Modhri had aged himself slightly with his cosmetic skills; they looked like a group of assorted relatives to the casual eye. Zaianne walked arm-in-arm with Modhri as the heads of the family, Coran, Helenva, and Kolanth a generation younger, and Lizenne and Allura as the youngest. The Princess had taken the lead on this escapade because they didn't want to waste any more time than necessary, and Tilla had made dire, _gronk_ ing threats at Lizenne about what would happen if she tried to scry again. They had already lost a day to caution; this little world was a busy place for Galra shipping, and was guarded accordingly. After the alarm that had gone out while picking up Allura, they'd decided to leave the Castle hidden in the asteroid belt and come in on one of the _Chimera's_ shuttles.

Hunk's signature was strong and pure, and led her unerringly toward a particular street where businesses were just starting to open up and the enticing smell of the first batch of lelosha wraps hung fragrant on the air, issuing from a tempting-looking fast-food place on the corner. “Oh, that's unfair,” Kolanth muttered, sniffing appreciatively. “Can we stop for a snack? I haven't had a lelosha wrap in over a year.”

“Kolanth, this is a rescue mission,” Allura hissed at him, “not a pleasure-trip! Try to stay focused.”

“Now, now, young lady,” Modhri chided gently, playing the indulgent patriarch for all that he was worth. “A good commander recognizes that the morale of her troops is as a second sword and takes care to keep it high. That way, the troops will use that sword against the enemy. A low morale is a sword pointed at your own _hapleks,_ or so my old sergeant taught me.”

Zaianne vented a snort of appreciative amusement. “Colorful, but accurate, for all that she has none. They do smell good, don't they? Lizenne, be a dear and fetch us some.”

Lizenne grinned and dashed over, catching up with them a minute or two later with a box of fragrant foodstuffs, which were much-appreciated by all hands, even Allura. Thus fortified, they came to a particular shopfront where someone very familiar was up a ladder, putting the finishing touches on the sparkling-new sign over the door. “Hunk!” Allura said.

He looked down and smiled, but finished his work before climbing down and giving Allura a hug. “Hey, guys, what took you so long?”

“This and that,” she replied, giving him a squeeze and stepping back to take a good look at him. He looked fine, if a little underslept, and someone had found a pair of trousers and a tunic for him. She frowned and tapped his collar. “That needs to come off. Care to escape with us?”

“Are you nuts?” he asked. “We're going to have the grand opening in an hour or two. I can't leave now! Come on, I'll introduce you all to everybody, we'll need the extra help today anyway. You can be the booth-bunny.”

“The what?” Allura said darkly, hearing Zaianne's snicker.

“The extremely cute and smart girl behind the counter who hands out prizes,” Hunk said, a little too quickly for comfort and poked his head through the door. “Hey, Lituya, I've found us some help!”

They found themselves ushered inside a dim cavern full of enticing flash and glitter, the air full of attractive beeps and snatches of dramatic music. “A ticket arcade, Hunk?” Zaianne asked. “I've only ever seen them on television.”

“Long story, tell you later,” Hunk said, peering about in the gloom. “Here comes my boss. Be nice to him, all right? He's a good kid.”

Medrok was indeed approaching, Lituya trotting close behind and staring with interest at the newcomers. “Did you get the sign working, Hunk? Who are these people?”

“The sign's fine, it was just a loose wire. All fixed.” Hunk grinned at him. “This is my family, or some of it. I'm adopted.”

Medrok gave them all a faintly baffled look. “I would never have guessed,” he managed with a rather harried smile. “Can we keep him for a little longer, just until closing time? We're a little short-handed.”

“No you aren't,” Zaianne said reassuringly, holding out a hand. “He's asked us to help out with your grand opening, and I feel that we should reward your kind treatment of my nephew.”

He hesitated, and then took her hand and bowed over it in as gentlemanly a fashion as he could muster, despite the faint sound of protest that came from Lituya. Zaianne looked around and saw that Lizenne, Allura, and Helenva were watching Medrok intently—three unfamiliar and beautiful women, all interested in her man, Zaianne realized. She gave Lituya a sly wink. “Don't worry, love, he's yours, safe and sure! Two of these young harpies are already spoken for, and the third's not ready to settle down yet.”

Medrok blushed a painful purple under his fur, but the look he gave Lituya was full of hope. “Th-thank you,” he replied honestly, although just who he was thanking was a little unclear. “I'm Medrok, and this is Lituya. Lorrost, Valce, and Kasten are somewhere back there, doing the final cleanup. Hunk, will you introduce us?”

“Sure,” Hunk said with a grin. “You've met Zaianne already, so that's Modhri, those are my uncles Coran and Kolanth, my older sister Helenva, my aunt Lizenne, and my sister Allura.”

There was a rumble of polite greetings, and Modhri bestowed that special smile upon the young pair that instantly made him into everyone's favorite uncle. “Where are we needed the most, young man?”

 

The rest of that day was very, very busy. The local grapevine had spread the news of the new arcade throughout the town in triple time, and absolutely everybody wanted to see it for themselves. Hunk couldn't help but feel some pride at seeing so many people enjoying themselves with his work. People of all ages had piled in, from cubs that were only just old enough to work the LED knitter and the candy machine to a gentleman who was nearly white with age flicking the pachinko machine's handle with studious determination. There was a lull around lunchtime, when Valce's dad had decided to get in on the action by setting up a field kitchen on the sidewalk outside; Medrok didn't mind, and it meant fresh food just when everyone wanted it, and a breather for him and the others. Hunk used the time to reload the games with fresh ticket reels and the knitter with glow-thread, and refilled the candy machine's syrup tanks. He'd just stowed the jugs back in the storeroom when Medrok sidled up and offered him a lelosha wrap.

Hunk accepted it eagerly and bit in. “Thanks,” he said around a mouthful of savory crunchiness. “Gonna have to rent those guys the back lot after all, huh?”

“Valce says his dad is interested,” Medrok said. “We'll have to charge a little more for the food than he does, but he says that convenience is worth a few extra gac. Especially if you've got a clutch of overexcited cubs with you.”

Hunk observed a crowd of youngsters cheering their sister on as she smacked the living snot out of the Whack-A-Mutant game. On the whole, he thought, it was a good thing that they'd attached the mallet to the game with a nice sturdy cable. That little girl had a look on her face that told him that no kneecap would be safe if she managed to pull it loose.

“I hear that,” Hunk said.

Medrok chuckled. “All right, I have to ask. Those people who showed up this morning—they're really your family?”

“Adopted, but yeah.” Hunk finished his wrap. “Why?”

“They aren't just a charitable Lineage, are they?” Medrok asked, indicating the Virtual Combat machine, where Zaianne was in the process of breaking down a holographic foe for stew meat while the crowd admired her prowess. There was a cheer as the simulated monster hit the floor in three pieces. “She's battle-trained, and so are Helenva and Kolanth.”

Hunk nodded. “Blade of Marmora. They're actually a really cool group when they aren't being scary. Zaianne's the red Paladin's mom, so she stays close to us. Helenva and Kolanth are just visiting.”

Medrok swallowed hard. “I'd thought that they were a legend. What about Allura and Coran? They don't look quite like Galra.”

“Good eye. Alteans. Her dad was King Alfor, who flew a Lion with Zarkon, back in the day.” Hunk looked over at the exchange counter, where she and Coran were counting tickets and handing out prizes. They looked to be having fun, at least, with Coran making a show of running a heap of tickets through the automatic counter, and Allura was smiling sweetly as she handed down a big fluffy stuffed toy to an ecstatic child who wasn't much bigger than it was. “They spent the whole ten thousand years sleeping in cryopods. She's the black Paladin right now, and Coran's a really good starship pilot.”

Medrok was starting to look a little shell-shocked. “And Lizenne and Modhri... wait. There was a program on the newsnets, the Empire's Most Wanted... She's the Rogue Witch, isn't she, and he's her henchman?”

“Her husband,” Hunk corrected him, “and they're nothing like as evil as Zarkon wants you to believe. A little bossy, yeah, and they're both good at what they do. Oh, and she's declared _kheshveg_ on Zarkon and Haggar, but that's about it.”

Medrok flinched at the sound of that word. “That's enough, believe me. Wow. Huh. I didn't know that intergalactic terrorists liked glow-thread bracelets and candy.”

Hunk glanced over at the candy machine, where Lizenne, her arms bedecked with colorful bracelets, was designing a peculiar shape out of sugar-equivalent. Modhri was taking a turn at the piloting sim and was giving a Galra half his age a real run for his money. “They're people, Medrok, that's all. They've got their reasons, and the reasons are good, trust me on that, but they still like a little honest fun now and again. Oops, and it looks like Kolanth and Helenva have been having their kind of fun.”

The two Blades were heading for the door, each with an unconscious person slung over one shoulder. Medrok humphed. “Ilshan and Nethrask Ollek'Var. Local thugs. They like to go around picking pockets, shaking down small businesses, and setting up protection rackets. The police have been trying to catch them at it for ages. Yeah, there's Officer Vaslesk, he got the go-ahead from the Chief to be here just in case they showed up, and he'll want the security footage. I'll just go and get that. Congratulations, Hunk, we've probably just made his day. Oh, and watch out, that little girl's managed to pull the Whack-A-Mutant mallet off of its cable.”

Sure enough, the girl-cub had the mallet raised on high, a glint in her amber eyes that would have been equally at home in the eyes of a Norse god bent on wholesale destruction. With a whoop, she took off across the room with her brothers scampering along behind her, swinging the mallet wildly at everything in sight. Hunk took off after them at the best speed that he could muster, but he wasn't quite quick enough. The wooden mallet, a relic from an antique toolbox that someone had dumped in the back lot several years ago, was a solid and heavy item with an authoritative swing even when wielded by a small child, and there were quite a few yelps and howls of surprise and pain from those who weren't observant enough to get out of her way. She would probably wind up growing up to be a prize-fighter, Hunk thought as he puffed down the aisles after the group of cubs, or a freelance blacksmith, or maybe a demolitions expert. She was certainly felling everyone taller than she was with a great deal of malicious enjoyment. He saw her pause up ahead when she came to the wide center aisle and look around, and saw her evil grin as she spotted a prize target. Hunk groaned when he realized that she was looking right at a big Golrazi Galra in a policeman's uniform—Officer Vaslesk, in the middle of booking the two local criminals. The little monster took off again with a whoop of villainous glee. Hunk put on an extra burst of speed and managed to catch the head of the mallet just before it smacked into Vaslesk's left kneecap.

“Sorry, sir,” Hunk said, straightening up and trying to pull the mallet out of the girl-cub's hands; she clung to the handle like grim death, screaming in defiance and kicking her little legs at him furiously. “She's a little warrior, isn't she?”

The officer gave him a wry smile and patted the little virago on the head, earning himself a glare that promised plain and fancy murder sometime in the near future. “Yeah. She's also my sister's youngest, and she's been trying to break my legs ever since I smacked her across the rump for shoplifting. Nice catch. Carry on.”

It took considerable persuasion and a treat from the candy machine to get the angry cub to let go of the mallet, and more candy to get her brothers' teeth out of his legs.

 

Eventually, it came time to broom the crowd out of the arcade, a task that went a little smoother when Valce shouted over the PA system that the lelosha wraps were half-price and Kasten backed that up by threatening to make anyone who didn't leave the building help clean it. “Tomorrow,” Medrok promised them, “we'll be open again tomorrow, come and have fun then, but we have to sleep sometime and so do you!”

With so many people helping, cleanup went quickly, even though Valce had to beg off early to go and help his father strike the field kitchen. Lorrost was hauled bodily away a half-hour later by his mother, who believed that young men needed their rest. Lituya's family, however, didn't seem to mind that she was out at all hours. “Independence training,” she said with a wry smile. “I'll have earned my pilot's license in another two years, and then I'll probably start my wandering studies. I'll be on my own, then, unless I want to take someone with me.”

She glanced at Medrok when she said that, which made Lizenne smile. “Do that. Don't make the same mistake I did and leave your intended man behind. Mine was maneuvered into a very bad situation by some very bad people while I was gone, and I had a time of it rescuing him. It was worth the effort, although I regret the time lost in self-imposed solitude.”

Lituya looked up from the pinball game she was polishing. “What happened to--” she stopped and stared at Lizenne, who had changed subtly between one sweep of the floor polisher and the next. “Didn't you used to be younger just now?”

“It's a trick,” Lizenne said calmly, running the polisher under a row of game systems. “You've got a fine boy there, and you're not to waste him on the whims of chance, although you might want to dispel that hex that's been laid on him.”

Lituya gave her a worried look and scrubbed at stubborn smudges. “I've tried. I can't budge it. His own sister put it on him, and his grandmother won't touch it. I... don't have much power.”

Lizenne hummed thoughtfully and turned off the polisher. “That's not what I see. Give me your hand for a moment.”

Lituya held out her hand. Lizenne's grasp was firm, rough with calluses across the palm and fingers, but warm. She felt an odd tingle, and golden sparks crackled over the back of her hand. It didn't hurt, but she hissed in surprise. Lizenne nodded. “Late bloomer. I came late to my full strength, too, and neither of us is particularly compatible with the standard training. Medrok? Would you come over here, please? I need to show Lituya something.”

Medrok, who was replacing ticket reels in the piloting sim, gave them a puzzled look, closed up the machine, and approached. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just stand there and relax. Think of something nice.” Lizenne lifted a finger and pointed it at a spot above and between his eyes. “See his hex, Lituya? Good. Now, touch his forehead right over the hex and feel the shape of it. Feel where the barbs have hooked in? Nasty thing, for all that it's a sloppy piece of work, all malice and no skill. We are going to change its shape until it can be removed without damaging him. Repeat after me: _Dhram etha tahe moq, arosh sobat qu lanze, che vai Medrok te lauda...”_

Medrok held still while Lituya repeated the odd syllables and then grunted when his friend pulled her finger away. Lituya stared at the fat purple spark hooked on the tip of her claw, then crushed it between her fingers with a grim expression. “Medrok, your sister is a born-in-the-bone _bitra._ That was evil!”

“Try living with her sometime,” he said, rubbing at his forehead. “Thanks.”

“That little cantrip is good for removing small hexes,” Lizenne said, “but it does have the side effect of letting you see a little way into the hearts of the people who set those hexes, and that can be very unpleasant. There are other ways to do it, but this is the easiest. For further instruction, I suggest that you begin your offworld studies on the planet of Zampedri. The local sophonts are a little alarming at first, but they have a great deal of wisdom to share.”

“And I'll make sure that they're forewarned of your eventual arrival,” Helenva said, coming up behind her. “My own Commander is interested in that world, too. You'll want these, Medrok.”

She handed the young man a pair of small objects that made him hiss in surprise. “The keys! The master key to the building, and the one for Hunk's collar. How did you get these?”

Helenva sneered. “I didn't. Your grandmother showed up looking for someone to berate. She seemed to be offended by today's successes for some reason, and managed to corner Lorrost. Kolanth went through her pockets while she was making grisly threats at the poor boy, and then Modhri spilled an iced drink down her back to make her leave. It worked admirably. What do you think, Medrok? We came to buy Hunk's freedom. Will your own be a fair price?”

“She'll pitch a fit when she finds these—and him—gone, but yes.” Medrok turned and handed the master key to Lituya with a gallant bow. “Will you keep this for me, my Lady?”

It was an expression of great trust, and Lituya blushed when she took the key from him. “I will. She'll never find it.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he murmured, and then shouted across the room. “Hunk? It's time to settle up!”

A few minutes later, the collar was off and tucked away in the back room along with the key. Just in case someone did something silly later on, Medrok said. Hunk felt as though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders, and he hugged both of the young Galra tight. “I'm gonna miss you guys,” he told them sincerely. “I can't say if I'll ever be back, but I hope that I'll see you again.”

“We'll miss you too,” Lituya said, giving him a little kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks for everything,” Medrok said wholeheartedly. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” Hunk said, letting them go with a sigh. “I'll probably need it.”

The others said their goodbyes and left, vanishing into the evening shadows as though they were dreams. Medrok and Lituya watched them go, and then turned their eyes to their own, suddenly wider and far more interesting future.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that Season 5, right? I love that Lance is starting to grow up just a little. Though I still think it would have been most awesome if Keith had accidentally lit the fire at the Kral Zera. Can you just imagine his face?
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has read this and left comments or kudos! I know that with each season, this story becomes more and more AU, especially now that the show has introduced Krolia. But we're still going to keep on with this story, because we're honestly having too much fun to stop now. Especially since we just stuck Shiro in a--  
> *is pelted furiously with a mountain of Rolled Up Socks Of No Spoilers*


	21. Inner Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in this chapter for violence, nonconsensual drug use, and potentially disturbing topics of conversation.

Chapter 21: Inner Fire

 

The maddened alien let out a guttural scream and attacked again, forcing Keith into a series of defensive parries that made the cheap length of bad steel in his hand vibrate and chip under the force of its blows. His opponent was untrained and unskilled with its weapon, but the sheer force of its homicidal insanity was a weapon unto itself. Keith knew that he would have to end it soon, and hated that fact. He had no choice, however; if he refused to put this person out of its agony, it would kill him.

He could do it, he'd done it before. His own father had started him early, first by teaching him how to deal with the scorpions that sometimes tried to creep into the house, then how to hunt larger things for food. One of his most precious memories was the camping trip where his father had shown him how to make dinner out of a large rattlesnake and a small rabbit. He had grown up on a military base among fighting men, where death held a stake in every soldier's shadow. He had fought Galra, and Robeasts, and he knew in his gut that every time that Voltron's sword had bitten into a starship, people had died. He'd even helped to kill Druids, although he wasn't sure whether or not those things were truly alive anymore. The fights he'd been forced into here were just more of the same. _The price of being a warrior,_ his uncle Jake had told him just before he'd gone on his last mission, _is having to be a warrior._ _That's why so many codes of honor have built up around us over the centuries—to separate the cold-blooded killers from those who still have enough of their hearts left to care._

Keith still cared, underneath his own battle-fury. He liked a good, stiff fight with a worthy opponent. The legacy of his mother's blood came through in him as a sort of joy; the simple joy of muscle and tendon working smoothly in tandem, the joy of facing and mastering a challenge, the joy of victory. He knew now why his mother smiled when she did battle, and why Lizenne had grinned like a shark all the time she'd been training them. The ornipal hunt in the envirodeck had been pure pleasure on an instinctive level as he had hunted as part of a pack; he had been doing something that part of him had been designed specifically for, in the company of those he trusted implicitly. Somewhere inside of him there was a predator, and predators loved the hunt, and loved the taste of blood.

The alien shrieked again and charged clumsily, frothing at the mouth and eyes devoid of any trace of rational thought, casting aside its sword and reaching out with stubby, clawed hands. Keith gritted his teeth and dodged out of the way, looking for the best place to strike. This wasn't a proper fight at all. This was a mercy-killing, and those were always horrible. The creature even _smelled_ insane, a sour reek that seemed to bypass his nose entirely and get its filthy miasma all over his mind. The last time he'd smelled anything like it was that one time in chemistry class when Professor Smith had slipped on a dropped stylus and had pulled down a whole cabinet of chemical jars, and that entire wing of the school had to be evacuated until the mess could be cleaned up. It smelled like chaos and disaster, and was fundamentally unclean.

Keith was almost too slow to dodge the creature's rush, and his foot slipped on the greasy stones of the arena floor. He thrust out his free hand and struck his opponent, open-handed, in the lower back to push himself back into balance as it went by. He nearly fell again when he saw—just for a fraction of a second—exactly what was wrong with the creature. Fortunately for him, it seemed to experience that sudden flash of insight as well, and it tripped and fell heavily to the stones, squawking loudly in confusion. Keith shuddered and shook his head, staring in shock at his hand. Just for a moment, he'd _felt_ the imbalance of chemicals between the second and third brain that was poisoning it. He had no time to consider that further, however, for the creature heaved itself up into a crouch and swung its jagged-toothed head around to snap at him. Keith danced aside, then darted forward and drove his blade hard into the center of its back, just below the shoulderblades and into the primary brain. It grunted in surprise and slumped lifeless to the arena floor, dead between one breath and the next.

“I'm sorry,” he said, barely able to hear himself over the roar of the crowd, and felt the sting at the back of his neck as his collar injected him with something that cooled his temper almost instantly and made him compliant. Mind full of mists, he didn't object when the monk came to clip the leash onto his collar, and followed along tamely at the tug of that granite-gray hand. The effects of the stuff only lasted for about fifteen or twenty minutes; ordinarily, he would be seething in outrage at this treatment, and at the treatment of the medic who would look him over for serious injuries in a moment or two. Right now, he had something far more important to think about. _Poison,_ he mused, barely noticing when the medic pushed him through the 'fresher, daubed his scrapes and bruises with ointment, and then gave him a mug of water and his ration of the tasteless pap that the prisoners here were fed on. _Like what Haggar did to Shiro. Like what the Druid did to Kolanth._

A vision of himself came to him as he ate and drank, him helping to hold the screaming, hex-possessed Blade down while Lizenne, Pidge, and Allura had pulled the evil things out of him. He'd seen the poison in Kolanth's body, and how the ladies had pulled it out. No, _Pidge_ had pulled it out. The other two had fed her power while she'd drawn the poison up, like plants drew toxins up out of the soil, forcing the hexes up to where they could be removed and destroyed. It was effective, but there was a better way. He was aware of that in the same way that he was aware of his own bones, even as he was being pushed down onto the bench in his cage and shackled in. He could almost see the way...

“And was Thanatos merciful today?”

Keith's thoughts dispersed at the sound of that voice. Kayell. He didn't like Kayell, but over the past several days, the hairy alien had become familiar to him.

“Answer me, boy, it's important. Is Thanatos a merciful Death today?”

He heard Lobosh sigh. “Leave off for a few more minutes, you ugly bastard, he's still doped out.”

“He faced Taloutwick'Jha'Kwerosh-Plep today!” Kayell snapped back. “He-Who-Destroys-By-Devouring-Higher-Thought was no small opponent, nor was he a merciful one! I am Kayell and the Hand of Kayell, even as you are Lobosh-Kor-Tonalt and the Hand of Lobosh-Kor-Tonalt! I _must know_ if Thanatos stands to protect mortal life or despises it. This is determined through the actions of the Hand. Speak, boy! Did your opponent suffer?”

“What's the difference, you _grasoup-pah lozzmip?_ Dead is dead. Quick is better than slow, but beyond that, it doesn't matter.”

There was an offended silence. “You have no understanding,” Kayell said in a withering voice. “There are things that are far worse than mere death, which is simply a change in state. Whether or not a Death leaves mortalkind at the mercy of those things is all-important. Boy, speak. I must know.”

Keith grunted and rubbed at his eyes as the mists in his head started to lift, a little annoyed with Kayell for derailing his train of thought. “'S okay, Kayell,” he slurred muzzily, his tongue still slightly numb from the drug. “One stab, dead insssth... instantly. Hardly felt anythhppt... anything. Said I was sorry.”

“Aaaahh.” Kayell seemed to deflate into a satisfied blot of deeper shadow in his cage. “You are a protector, then, and you valued his life enough to care, and to apologize for having to take it. Good. Good. There is so much danger beyond the planes that mere mortals can see, and those heroic enough to stand against it are so rare...”

Lobosh growled. “Shut up, Kayell. I'm tired of your babble.”

Kayell chuckled. “Your Master becomes impatient. You will fight again soon, Lobosh, even as I will. Perhaps we will be required to face each other, and what then?”

Lobosh vented an odd whirring sound of irritation. “Then whichever one of us that lives will hopefully have the grace to keep quiet when other people have headaches! Shaddap, Kayell.”

Kayell humphed, but stayed quiet after that. Keith leaned back against the rear wall of his cage and let his mind drift. He was bone-weary, and not just from the drug. No inmate here was forced to fight more than one bout per day, but the fights were all to the death, and there was no room to lie down in the cages. He wasn't used to sleeping sitting up, and he was starting to feel the effects of that. He wondered vaguely if the old Roman gladiators had been kept like this, all the ones whose names history had forgotten because they weren't as good as Spartacus or the other big names in the sport. Probably. Only the real pros had gotten star treatment. The rest had just been fodder for the crowd's bloodlust.

He was dozing when voices intruded on his thoughts again, loud voices that echoed off of the walls and cage rows. That wasn't the other prisoners, he knew. Most of those had learned to stay quiet, and the ones who were prone to making a fuss were kept lightly sedated until their turn to fight came up, to spare the nerves of their neighbors. He listened with some interest, and a movement in Kayell's cage and a pained grunt from Lobosh told him that others were taking note. There were two voices, actually. The louder one was a rough-edged baritone that Keith thought might be Galra. The softer one was the unmistakable hollow rumble of one of the Boniram monks. They were coming closer, and Keith's sensitive ears picked up the sound of three sets of feet. The soft tread of the monk. The ring of hard bootheels on the stone floor. The slow shuffle of someone long-legged and barefoot, with a faint _clack_ to each stride. He knew what that sound was; Lizenne rarely wore shoes, and he used to amuse himself by tracking her movements through the Castle by the sound of her toe-claws striking the deck. From the sound of it, there was a very large Galra ambling down the hall toward them.

“--an interesting assortment this time,” the baritone voice was saying haughtily, the speaker coming close enough to render his words clear. “Possibly one or two of them will give my pet here a real challenge.”

“As Durishk wills it,” the monk replied mildly, invoking his god. “We've several fierce ones, just acquired this last eight-day. That one in cage #81 is one of them. Small, but a skilled swordsman. Also, a Nobrelth, a Yopplet, two Hukkos, and a Westha. The Cruel One has not been idle.”

“Apparently not,” the loud one said, “although I'm mildly surprised to see that you've still got those two rabid animals.”

Their visitors had turned the corner now, and Keith leaned forward to try to see them past Lobosh's broad bulk. Yes, there were three, and one of them was indeed massive, his head coming within a few centimeters of scraping the ceiling.

“Tokosh has granted them the strengths of madness. They are potent fighters,” the monk replied evenly, moving ahead to open the cage to Keith's left. “They have surmounted every challenge that the Wheels have presented them with.”

The smaller of the other two people humphed disapprovingly. “I still say that the Wheels could use a little assistance in making their choices. Have you considered--”

“ _No,_ my Lord, nor will we. The Wheels are sacred, and their choices may not be influenced by any will but that of the God's.” That was the first time that Keith had heard irritation in a monk's voice. “Not even for you. Bring him here, please.”

Keith couldn't help but to stare as the two others passed his cage. The smaller one was indeed a Galra, a richly-dressed and slightly overweight Golrazi—one of the resident nobles that his neighbors had told him about. At the other end of the leash that the noble was holding, however, was... Keith blinked in disbelief. _Emperor Zarkon?_

_No,_ he thought a frozen second later, as the enormous male was settled in. _Zarkon isn't that big, or that heavy._

The resemblance was remarkable. The Galra now sitting next to him was also a Golrazi, the harsh, angular, faintly reptilian features and pale eyes, even the coloration was an almost exact match of what Keith had seen during his own near-disastrous one-on-one battle with Zarkon. But no, this person was younger, a little darker-complected, his eyes a touch more golden, and he was taller and far more muscular. He looked, in fact, like someone had been feeding him anabolic steroids, and there was one more thing that disqualified him from ever truly resembling the Emperor. When Keith had fought Zarkon, he'd seen the keen intelligence in that old tyrant's eyes, the vast experience, the powerful will and determination that had made the Empire flourish despite everything that ten thousand years could throw at it. This man had no more expression than a concrete slab, eyes vacant, features as still as a Sentry's, and he showed no signs of life other than his slow, steady breathing.

The noble gazed at his mountainous captive with a certain cruel satisfaction, fingers tapping idly at a small device hanging from his belt. The monk noticed this fidgeting, and gave him a hard look. “My Lord, please don't do that. If you set him off down here, neither of us may survive.”

The noble humphed, but took his hand away from the device. “Show me the Westha, then. I've never actually seen one, and they are said to be as dangerous as the Elikonians.”

“Almost,” the monk said judiciously, locking the cage and motioning for the noble to follow him. “Westhas lack self-control. Elikonians retain that even at the peak of their rages. You are thinking of a certain pirate captain?”

The noble smiled unpleasantly. “Lotor will catch up with it eventually, and will wish to hold an appropriate execution. I have already extended the services of the Temple Arena. Is there any creature more dangerous than an Elikonian, do you think?”

“Of course there is, my Lord,” the monk replied, moving off down the row. “There are several. All of them are too large or too dangerous to confine here. Lotor, however brave he is, will never bring a Weblum to this Temple, or a dhoula-beast, or a Hoshinthra, and no matter how clever and ambitious he is, he shall never lock his father or his father's witch in these cages. One might as well ask for a Paladin.”

Keith forbore to comment. His companions remained silent until the two visitors vanished out of sight at the far end of the row. Lobosh whirred irritably. “'Rabid animals', he calls us. He's condemned hundreds of people to death over the past twelve years, where I only got sixty-seven. What does that make him?”

“Precisely what he is, of course,” Kayell snickered. “A Judge. He is not important. Let him point and stare at those who are more exalted than he will ever be. It is who he has brought with him that will change everything.”

Lobosh made a disgusted noise, muttered, “Oh, Fates,” under his breath, and wrapped his long hands around his ears.

Kayell didn't seem to notice. “Boy, hearken unto the great person you share a bench with. That is Kuphorosk and the Hand of Kuphorosk, for whom all that lives is his rightful prey. His owner has been bringing him here for a week's time every other month or so for years, and he has never once been defeated, nor even seriously injured. His origins are secret, the source of his great strength a mystery, and yet he may be led as tamely as a rhana pup. It is said that he is no more than a golem. It is said that he is a product of the Emperor's own witch. It is true that he only comes to full consciousness in the ring, with a sword in his hand and an opponent in sight. It is fitting that this is so; even as the Galra are supreme above all others, thus Kuphorosk has precedence over the lesser Deaths.” Kayell sniffed primly. “Even so, they have not got it quite right. Representations of the God always show him with a spear. Carved from the leg bone of a legendary monster, so it was said, and tipped with one of the fangs.”

Keith's mind flashed to Lizenne's preferred weapon, and the sort of damage that she could do with it. “I know someone who's got one of those.”

Kayell made an interested noise. “And knows how to use it, I hope.”

Keith remembered how many times he'd been knocked to the floor before he'd worked out how to dodge it. “Oh, yes.”

“Good. A bone spear, especially one wielded by a Galra, is a very serious matter.” Kayell hummed happily under his breath. “Yes, yes, very serious. Such weapons may not be used casually, or kept merely for display purposes. A Galra who takes up a bone spear goes to hunt a beast or a person whom only a God might fell. It is a major commitment, and a terrible responsibility, for he may not forsake that hunt lest the weapon turn against the one who bears it.”

“ _Kheshveg_ was declared,” Keith said, and had the pleasure of hearing Kayell choke in surprise. “And I already know what that means.”

Kayell's voice shook slightly when he spoke again. “I salute your acquaintance, then. May that spear find its rightful target, and may the God grant the hunter what luck he may.”

Kayell fell silent after that, which was a mercy, and Lobosh seemed to have fallen asleep. There was no sound now, other than Kuphorosk's slow, steady breathing, and his pale eyes gleamed dimly in the shadows. Every so often the colossus would blink, but that was all. After a time, Keith began to become aware of his scent. All Galra smelled slightly of spices and dog, including himself. He'd become more sensitive to that sort of thing since Zaianne had joined the team, and he'd become able to tell them apart; his mother was cinnamon and greyhound and Kolanth was bayleaf and airedale, but this big guy... this one didn't smell right. There was a definite hint of white pepper in there, and something large and dangerous among the canine clan, but it was all but obscured by an acrid reek that was disturbingly familiar. Not Haggar. Possibly a Druid or an equally nasty witch, and the stink of it made his nose wrinkle.

Something tickled at his memory then. He remembered that during his last bout in the arena, he'd laid a hand on his opponent. Just for a second, he'd seen what ailed the raving alien, but that view had been cut short by necessity. The same hand that had been burned in his first fight against a Druid, as a matter of fact, and healed by a dip in raw Quintessence. Keith held up the hand in question and studied it; it looked and felt no different than it always had. He glanced up at Kuphorosk again, who hadn't moved so much as a millimeter. The Galra was so broad that his arms pressed against the bars on either side of him. There was just enough play in the force-cable attached to his manacle to reach...

Nothing happened. Under his fingertips, the skin of the Galra's arm was smooth and warm and felt like leather. Kuphorosk didn't seem to notice his touch. How had he done it before? His musings while he'd been drugged had mostly vanished along with its effects. He remembered thinking that his opponent had smelled bad, almost chemical somehow, like it had been poisoned. _Poisoned, that's right,_ he thought, the faint but pervasive stink of witch's malice tickling his nostrils again. _Focus on the smell of the poison._

And there it was. It was hard to hold in his mind's eye now that focus wasn't a matter of life and death, and dark. The psycho in the arena hadn't been dark; if anything, it had been as red and hot and bright as the noonday suns on this world. Kuphorosk was dark and cold and quiet inside, and awash with unnatural substances. _Patience yields focus,_ he thought as he often did, and waited for the image to come clear. It did so with glacial slowness, but there it was at last. There were three hexes embedded in his neighbor—one in the brain, another in the heart, and a third in the lower back, two of them sending out pulse after pulse of _something_ into his muscles, blood, and nervous system. Outwardly, Kuphorosk was the very picture of strength and potency; inwardly, Keith knew that those hexes would eventually kill him. The one in his brain was keeping his mind suppressed, like a heavy sedative. The one in his heart, which was inactive at the moment... Keith wasn't sure, but there were signs on that massive organ that suggested that it had been stimulated to nearly the bursting point in the recent past. _Super fast reflexes,_ Keith thought, remembering the descriptions of the effects of certain very illegal drugs in Health class. The third looked to be responsible for the muscular overdevelopment. Keith realized that someone had essentially turned Kuphorosk into a murder-puppet, a berserker that could be turned on and off like a machine, and had given him over to a complete bastard of a nobleman who not only had no problem with keeping a fellow living being in that state, but did it for fun.

And he had been kept like this for years.

Keith felt his temper rising again, along with the bile in his throat. _How dare they?_ He thought, outraged, _how_ dare _they?_ It was bad enough to be enslaved in the first place, and reduced legally to the status of livestock. It was worse to be kept in a cage and made to fight and die for the amusement of his masters. But to twist his body into this unnatural shape and chain down his very thoughts until he was little more than a wind-up toy, that was evil. Something in him wanted very badly to set the whole universe on fire and burn all of the evil out of it. He felt the shadow of that fire like the desert sun inside him, and--

Heard footsteps on the stone floor outside. His concentration shattered, he snatched his hand back as a pair of monks came walking down the aisle. There was a faint, deep _tchuh_ somewhere above his head, and he looked up to see that Kuphorosk was looking back at him. A vague, sidelong look, but there was something like interest in those pale yellow eyes. Keith didn't have time to process this, for the monks stopped at their cages; one of them opened Kuphorosk's cage and detached his restraints while the other one turned to do the same with Kayell. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to Keith, and walked away with their offerings to their god.

 

Kayell did not come back. Kuphorosk did, his smock splashed with brown stains and his arms showing shallow cuts and scratches, eyes flickering like embers and breathing a little fast. The stink of his hexes seethed around him in an almost visible fog. Keith knew that he would never see Kayell again, and it hit him harder than he had thought it would. Lobosh had awoken at the sound of Kuphorosk being locked in again, and sighed. “So much for Kayell. Eh, it's what he was expecting.”

Keith took offense at his indifferent tone. “How can you say that? You were friends, weren't you?”

Lobosh gestured a negative. “No. I'm a sociopath. We don't have friends, nor do we need them. Other people are either interesting or furniture, and that's that. He was interesting, and that's the best thing that I can say about anyone. Don't grieve for him, boy. He'd tell you himself that he wasn't worth the effort. He was the last surviving member of a murder cult, and the things that he and his colleagues got up to make me look like a saint in comparison. They all knew when they took their little oath that they'd end up like this. At least he got cut down by the best. It's all that anyone here can hope for.”

“Well, _I_ feel rotten about it,” Keith said defiantly.

Lobosh smiled. “Go ahead. I'm sure that his gods'll appreciate it. Eh. The nicest thing about being a social deviant is that you don't have to waste energy on caring.”

 

Two days later, Keith sat huddled against the bars of his cage, trying to shake off the effects of the drug the monks had given him, dangerously close to envying Lobosh for his inability to form friendships and wishing that this day had not happened. His number had come up that morning; that was nothing new, he'd been made to fight six out of the nine days that he'd been here. Unfortunately, so had Lobosh's. Like Kayell, Lobosh had not been a friend, but he had been a companion and a fellow-sufferer of the whims of fate, and worse, he had helped Keith win. Oh, he hadn't made it easy. Lobosh had been nearly twice Keith's height and frighteningly agile for someone so large, but he'd kept up a steady murmur all the while they'd been led to the arena, describing the best way to kill him. He could still hear the low, even voice in his mind even now: _You're short for this work, so concentrate on my legs, the big tendons above the knees are the best target. Aim to the inside leg and you'll sever the nerve bundle, which'll spare me some pain. I'll fall, and you'll want to cut the arm muscles above and below the elbow. Painful, but it'll keep me from gutting you. I'm ambidextrous, so get that sword away from me as fast as you can. I'll probably roll over and make a grab with the other arm. If I catch you, I'll snap your spine—that's reflex, so either dodge the grab and cut that arm too, or end me before I can do that. Best way for a quick kill when I'm down is to sever the vertebral column at the base of the neck. Aim between the points on the dorsal ridge. Do it fast and don't hesitate for a second, because I won't wait for you._

He'd asked why Lobosh was telling him all of that, of course, and the alien had given him a slow, sad smile.

_Because I don't want you fouling it up. Because Kayell was more interesting to me than I had thought he was. Because living isn't interesting without him. Because I'm_ tired, _boy, and there is only one cure for that here. Because Thanatos is a merciful god, and yours is the only mercy that I'm ever going to get. Do as I say, and live._

Keith had done that. It had been a hard fight with Lobosh demonstrating just how he had survived for so long in the Arena's keeping, but it had ended very quickly. Lobosh had brought his sword around in a slash at neck height, going for a clean decapitation; Keith had ducked and rolled, allowing him access to the ropy tendons in Lobosh's legs, and for once the sword he'd been given had cut cleanly. He'd brought that sword down as hard as he could on the back of Lobosh's neck almost before the giant had hit the ground, turning the deadly fighter into a pile of cooling meat in less than a second. He had tried, despite the sedative that his collar had administered, to strike at the monk who had come to take him to the medic, to fight his way free of the leash, but had found himself defeated. Now he sat here alone, for Kuphorosk had also drawn another bout in the ring, trying to decide what hurt worse, his heart or his bruises. He wasn't afraid to admit that he desperately wanted his mother, and he yearned for the closeness of his team. For Shiro, long-lost and dearly missed. And Lizenne and Modhri. Coran and Kolanth. The dragons. Even the mice. Oh, god, the mice. If even one mouse had accompanied him here, he would have been out and gone days ago, but there wasn't so much as a cockroach in this prison.

When a monk came back with Kuphorosk, Keith lifted his head to watch. The massive Galra had fought someone with high blood pressure this time, to judge by the large, still-wet purple stains on his increasingly-colorful smock. Keith wondered vaguely why they were making him wear that thing. All surviving combatants were pushed through a cleansing machine right after a bout so that the medic wouldn't have to worry about having to deal with infected wounds. Maybe that Galra noble liked collecting the smocks as a sort of vicarious trophy. Keith's overtired mind had him drawing the parallels between that idea and the _Night Terror's_ own grisly collection and feeling ill as a result. As always, Kuphorosk himself seemed unmoved, aside from the usual aftereffects of his hexes. Keith merely sat and listened for a time as Kuphorosk's breathing slowed and steadied, and the stink of bad magic dissipated back into a sort of background funk. On impulse, he shifted position so that he was leaning against the bars that separated him from Kuphorosk, his shoulder and arm pressing up against the Galra's. The giant did not move or acknowledge his presence, but the warmth of him was comforting.

Wearily, Keith tried to have a look at the hexes again, not really knowing why he was bothering to do so. Even if there was a way to free this person from them, there was nothing else he could do to help free him from the monks. _Because I feel sorry for the poor bastard,_ _that's why,_ Keith thought to himself. He valued freedom, his own and that of others, very highly. Keith's family and friends were coming to free him, he knew that through the pack-bond, he'd felt Hunk's joy at being rescued just last night and Allura's determination to find him next, but Kuphorosk here had nothing to hope for. He'd already spent years in captivity, and if anyone at all had tried to rescue him, they hadn't succeeded. _At the very least, if I can find a way to get those hexes out, he can pretend to be a zombie until that noble takes him out of here, and then he can squash the bastard and escape. Who knows? Maybe together we can think of a way that gets both of us out of here alive._

Awkwardly, he maneuvered his right hand over, resting the fingertips against his neighbor's overlarge bicep and tried to concentrate. It was easier this time, now that he knew what to look for, but what he found was worrying. Kuphorosk's heart had been pushed nearly to the point of failure again, and despite the efforts of the hex lodged in his back, the muscles and tendons in his legs and shoulders had barely been able to keep up without suffering serious damage. Whatever they'd pitted him against had either been really dangerous or had been killed very thoroughly. Either way, the huge Galra wouldn't be able to take much more of this treatment without falling down dead of a burst heart or blowing out every major muscle group in his body. How could he stop this? He knew that he could do it, but he didn't know _how._ Keith groaned in frustration and rubbed at sore eyes. He had the sneaking suspicion that there were huge, obvious clues all over the place, and he was simply too worn out to see them. He sighed and gave up on it, slipping into sleep.

He was awakened again seemingly only a few seconds later when someone tugged sharply on his collar. He struck out instinctively with a fist only to have it slapped aside with a bruising impact to the soft underside of his wrist, bringing him fully awake with the pain of it. One of the monks had come to take him to the arena again. To his dismay, another was removing Kuphorosk from his cage as well. Keith checked his bond; Allura and Hunk were closer to him now than they had been, but still too far away to get here in time to help. He was on his own, and the great dull-eyed hulk walking beside him wasn't going to give him any clues like Lobosh had. Keith saw the irony here; before he'd left Earth, he had always fought alone. Learning to fight as part of a team had been very difficult for him, and now he would have given anything to have them with him. Swallowing hard, he tried to recall exactly how Shiro had defeated the monstrous Myzax, and realized that his friend had never gone into much detail. Myzax had had an energy orb, and Shiro had had a sword. Beyond that, he knew almost nothing. Even their battle against the transformed Myzax wasn't a good reference, since their control of Voltron's systems at that time had been rudimentary at best.

Still, there were advantages in being a small foe. The hex in Kuphorosk's heart might make him fast, but it still took time to move that big body, and the sheer breadth of shoulder and the heavy neck muscles would make it hard for the Galra to see him if Keith ducked behind him. His great height also made his legs a good target, although the tendons looked like steel cables. If nothing else, if he could dodge and keep dodging, there was a real possibility that Kuphorosk's heart would give out. It all depended on how hard the little device that Kuphorosk's owner had could push him, and how bloodthirsty that creep was feeling today.

All such considerations faded when they stepped out into the Temple Arena, this planet's red sun hanging in the sky above like the mouth of an active volcano. Visible above and to the left of it was the smaller, brighter orb of its golden-orange sibling, and the air was scorching hot and dry under their fiery influence. The stands above the Arena's high walls were packed today, and the VIP box also held a full complement of nobles. Among them, Keith saw Kuphorosk's owner, smirking smugly down at them from his exalted height, something small held in one hand. If only he could reach that creep! If only he'd had more time!

He was pulled to a halt and made to stand while Kuphorosk was led to the other side of the Arena, his leash unclipped from his collar and a sword pressed into his hand when the giant had been maneuvered into position. Keith stood still and waited while the monks retreated back into the safety of the Temple and the Abbot intoned the pre-battle blessing; any attempt to move would get him an eye-crossing shock from his collar. He'd already felt that once, just before his first battle, and it had nearly gotten him killed. He couldn't afford to make that kind of mistake now. The blessing concluded with the usual _boom boom boom_ of huge, deep-toned drums, and a blue flare was lit to signal the start of the match, the color shocking against the red-orange glow of the sky. He shifted uneasily, watching the silent mass of his opponent, waiting for Kuphorosk to activate. This was a trap; Keith wondered how many people had died trying to get in an early strike against a monster that just stood there, only to have it go off in their faces like a volcano. He waited, and the crowd began to boo and throw things.

Suddenly, there was a pulse on the air that Keith felt with his heart rather than his skin; Druid magic, like when they teleported, and it came from the VIP box. Right on cue, Kuphorosk shuddered and let out a bellow that no one from Earth had heard the like of since the last of the great cave bears had died. The yellow eyes burned in that harsh-planed face as they swept the Arena, looking for prey. They settled on Keith, who had nowhere to hide.

Kuphorosk's huge hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, which looked like a hairpin among those thick fingers, and he charged. It was like watching an oncoming train—deceptively slow, and unstoppable. Keith dove to one side, avoiding the initial rush and rolling as fast as he could to avoid a stamping foot that sent chips of stone flying from the impact of those heavy toe-claws. Keith essayed a slash at the calf muscles, missed, and was forced to dodge a fist that was bigger than his head. _Fast._ Nothing that big and muscle-bound should be that fast, and Keith nearly choked on the vile reek that billowed from Kuphorosk's hexes. All three were active now, visible to his inner eye as hot points of garnet-colored light, forcing the enormous Galra into a berserker rage that would end only in death—his or Keith's. He would feel no pain, Keith knew, and know no fear, and his strength was such that if Keith tried to parry any of the monster's sword strikes, it would break all of the bones in his arm. All he could do was dodge, and keep dodging until he could get a clear strike at Kuphorosk's hamstrings or the big tendon at the back of the leg.

Silently, he cursed his sword; like all of the Arena-issue weapons, it was cheap, badly-made, poorly-balanced, the blade was full of nicks, and it wasn't particularly sharp. He yearned for his bayard even as he clutched at this sorry excuse for a sword and threw himself out of the way of another massive strike. When he made a return swing at Kuphorosk's calf, the blade actually bounced off of the iron-hard muscle, leaving a cut that barely bled at all. Kuphorosk roared, more out of irritation at the impact than anything else, and brought his own sword down in an arc that would have split Keith asunder if he hadn't scrambled away fast enough; the piece of bad steel splintered on the stones, and the monster cast the remaining stub contemptuously aside. The huge hands were far deadlier weapons in any case. Keith felt another pulse of aetheric energy, and practically heard Kuphorosk's heart thunder in his chest. Impossibly, the monster sped up, driving triphammer fists at him, fanged jaws gaping, eyes burning. He was breathing like a bellows, though, desperately trying to keep that overbuilt body supplied with oxygen, and it was only a matter of time before something in there broke. In the meantime, Keith had to keep out of his way, and that was far more difficult than he would like. Each of Kuphorosk's long strides took three of Keith's, his reach was enormous, the claws on his fingers like grappling hooks. The nick on his left calf had warned him that his legs were at risk, and he never let Keith get that close to him again.

Keith was tiring now, and desperately thirsty. The Arena was a red-lit oven, and sweat slicked the hilt of his sword and trickled into his eyes. Every breath of the hot air tasted of deep desert and blurred his vision, and still the monster pursued him. In his fevered mind, he felt the eyes of his Lion upon him, watchful and expectant; she was waiting for him to do something, something important; just what, he did not know. The red Lion expected a certain amount of self-sufficiency from her pilots, and she gave neither aid nor advice unless she absolutely had to. They had grown closer over the course of the past year or two, but certain things remained the same.

Kuphorosk boomed another impatient roar and struck out with one hand, slapping Keith's sword out of his grasp and sending it clattering away over the stones. Keith sprinted after it, but not quite fast enough. Another open-handed blow impacted hard against his side, knocking him flat. He tried to roll, but a huge foot came down hard on his chest, pinning him to the Arena floor. Keith stared up and saw an image that would stay with him for the rest of his life: A vast dark shape, yellow eyes glowing like stars in a face that had been hewn from granite, outlined against the great orb of a bloody sun in a sky the color of fire. Keith could see the hexes clearly now, burning with their own unclean light, filling Kuphorosk and the air around him with poison.

_Poison,_ Keith thought as Kuphorosk began to slowly crush him, the two toe-claws digging holes in his chest. When a body was poisoned, it became feverish, trying to burn the toxins out.  _Fire..._

He felt the presence of the red Lion in his mind, watching him closely, the heat of her core like her own private sun.

_Fire..._

Keith suddenly remembered his father telling him an old story once, and explaining how certain ancient peoples had believed that fire had two aspects. The aspect that people usually saw was the one that destroyed, devouring everything in its path. The other, more rarely seen, was the aspect that purified. That burned away rot and filth and left only the gleaming pure core behind.

Keith seized Kuphorosk's ankle in both hands and snarled,  _“Help me!”_ at his Lion.

It was like the turning of a key in the lock. Somewhere behind his breastbone the floodgates opened, pouring his own burning spirit into Kuphorosk's body in a searing rush that made both of them burst into flames. Time seemed to slow, and he watched the golden-scarlet flames burn purple at the edges as the poisons were consumed, saw the dying garnet flares as the hexes burst. Kuphorosk screamed, one long howl of shock and agony, and a lavender-white spear of flame burst from between his jaws with enough force to scorch a perfect rosette on a wall ten feet away. The flames flickered out; the huge Galra, charred black and his massive body baked stiff by that burning, stayed standing for a long moment before going over like a tree. Exhausted and weary beyond anything he had ever known before, Keith smiled and passed out.

The crowd was silent, having never seen anything like that before, and buzzed in confusion until the Temple medic came out for a look. The Boniram's stone-gray fingers searched for signs that either had been loaded with an incendiary device and found none. In addition, he couldn't feel a pulse in either of the still bodies, not that he tried all that hard to find one. The Galra's fire-hardened skin cracked and splintered unpleasantly under his fingers when he tried to find the carotid artery, and the smaller one smelled dreadful. He stood up, declared them both dead, and lifted his face to the blood-red sun at its zenith directly overhead, and declared further that the Great Durishk had claimed both with His own fiery Hand. “Be honored to have witnessed the Hand of the God!” he told the awed crowd, and then motioned to the acolytes to remove the bodies.

These were taken to a particular room in the Temple and thumped down on trestles, the collars removed to be cleaned and reused. The Temple was thrifty; at the end of the day, the Abbot would arrive to bless and absolve the bodies before they went to feed the nyarlogi. Until then, they were left alone. There simply wasn't any point in guarding a corpse.

Perhaps a half-hour after the two bodies had been abandoned there, the larger of the pair let out a deep groan and shifted slightly, causing the stiff, still-warm hide to crack and fall away in large pieces. There was a cough, another groan, and a long, lean, dusty-purple figure emerged from his own spent skin like a butterfly from a chrysalis. He sat up, took in his surroundings, and said something that sounded like  _“wh't' t' fhuh?”_ in a sticky whisper that made him aware of a very dry throat and an equally empty belly. He noticed a small figure lying next to him on the low trestle, and recognized it as familiar. When he laid a hand on that figure's shoulder, there was an answering moan, just as dry as his had been.

Right. It might smell bad, but it didn't smell dead and didn't sound dead, so it probably wasn't dead. He remembered, vaguely, that he'd been about to squash this small person when it had set him alight with a fire that had brought him back to life instead of the other way around. That meant magic, and magic had its price. He lurched upright, lifted the small person into his arms, and went looking for the kitchen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it about us fan writers that we're driven to show our love for characters by tormenting them? Same goes for our love for our readers, so when we give you all cliffhangers, we're actually being affectionate! Honest!  
> Please don't kill us.


	22. Interesting Discoveries

 

Chapter 22: Interesting Discoveries

 

Keith came awake slowly. He was lying on his back on a hard surface, something smelled like burnt hair and... well, he wasn't sure, but it was pretty nasty, and someone was trickling water into his mouth. It tasted like heaven, and he lurched up and grabbed reflexively at the container, drinking in huge gulps until it was empty. Someone followed that up with a piece of what might have been bread, and he nearly choked getting that into his suddenly ravenous belly. More followed, and when he could think again, he found himself clinging to an arm that was as long as he was tall. It was also leathery, and purple.

He stared upward into a pair of amused pale-yellow eyes. “Ku... Kuphorosk?” he asked.

There was a sound like rocks being ground together. The huge Galra had chuckled. “Nope,” he said in a rumbling  _basso profundo_ that Keith heard mostly with his bones. That voice was a little rusty, as if he hadn't used it in a long time. “Not my name, that. I'm... ah... yeah. Kelezar. Kelezar of the Szaah'Tirr Lineage. Sorry. Little slow right now. Haven't really been able to think for a long time. Who're you?”

“Keith,” Keith replied, running one hand over his face and finding that his eyebrows were scorched, and the ends of his hair broke off in little frizzles. “What happened?”

“You tell me,” Kelezar said. “I was dead as usual, then you set me on fire, and now I'm not dead and neither are you. Still hungry?”

“Yeah. Thirsty, too. Tired, mostly.” Keith felt a deep need to curl up for a week-long nap. “Dead?”

Kelezar moved away, and Keith saw that while he had grown no shorter, the massively overdeveloped physique had fined down to a more natural muscularity. Still enormously powerful, but not grotesquely so. He'd also lost the stained smock that he'd been wearing and had improvised a loincloth out of what looked to be a monk's toga. His collar was gone, too, and when Keith felt his own neck, he found that he was free as well. They were in what looked to be a dining area of some sort, with cooking stations at one end. Keith was sitting on the table, wrapped in another salvaged toga.

“Yeah, dead,” his strange companion said absently, refilling a mug at the tap and pulling a net-bag full of round, blue-spotted objects out of a cabinet. “'S what it felt like. Dark. Cold. Couldn't do anything. Couldn't think anything. Could see, hear, taste, and all that, but only from far away. Except when fighting. Then it's too loud, too hot, too bright, I'm killing-mad, heart pounding fit to burst, and someone's trying to kill _me._ Over and over and over again. That isn't living. That's being dead, and being pulled in and out of some hell or other. Here, try these. Mildrem fruit. Most folks can eat 'em.”

“Thanks.” The blue-spotted fruits tasted a little like soft cheese, but he was past caring.

“Had to get rid of your bodysuit,” Kelezar said apologetically. “Got scorched and smelled awful. You aren't burnt, though. How'd you do that?”

Keith swallowed a mouthful of blessedly cool water. “Not sure. Had to do it anyway. You had hexes in you, and they were... well, those were what were making you dead inside. They also made you into a monster. I burned them and the poison they were giving you out. You look better now. Has anyone told you that you look a lot like the Emperor?”

Kelezar bared his teeth in what wasn't quite a smile. “I should. He's my own grandfather. Grandma was Korbexan, handed off to him because politics, and she did her duty by him before she up and left. Only one clutch of kids, though, 'cause she would've broken his neck if he tried touching her again, and he knew it. Mom picked herself a nice Golrazi man, another of Zarkon's get by a different Lineage. His genes bred true, save that I'm bigger. That's the Korbexan blood talking.”

Keith remembered Drosh, who had been very short but enormously strong. “I take it that you don't like him much.”

Kelezar sighed. “Never really got to know him. He doesn't take much interest in his kids. Too much statecraft, military, hunting around for the Lions, no time left for descendants. That witch of his...” he shuddered, “bad as he is, she's worse. Lots worse. Mom wouldn't have anything to do with her, and for good reason! M'parents didn't much like the way that they've been running the Empire. Too much waste. Too much destruction. Too much abuse. That sort of bad governance leads to real trouble later, and so they got us out of the Center as soon as they could manage. Too late for my brothers. They like it fine, since the way things are set up is making them rich. Mom showed me the price of that, though, and I didn't like it any more than she did.”

Keith gazed curiously at his companion. “How'd you wind up as a slave?”

Kelezar sank down awkwardly onto a bench that was much too low for him. “We got summoned into the Center for a loyalty test. Someone'd gotten suspicious about Dad. We all got assignments to hunt down enemies of the Empire. I got told to hunt down the Blade of Marmora. Had to study 'em so I knew what to look for, right?”

“Right,” Keith said cautiously.

“Went hunting for them, all right. Not to kill them, though.” Kelezar chuckled. “To join them. Almost did it, too, but the Ghamparva caught up with me first. The Blade who was my contact got away, I saw to that, but I got hauled back to Parzurak in disgrace. I remember being dragged off to Haggar's lab, and then... well, then I was dead. Got handed off to one of my nasty little cousins, I think. What d'you do for a living?”

Keith finished his fruit and smiled wryly at the huge Galra. “I pilot the red Lion. It's not as much fun as it looks.”

Kelezar stared at him in unabashed amazement for a long moment, and then began to laugh. It sounded like an avalanche and nearly vibrated Keith's mug right off of the table. “Okay, fine,” he said eventually, when he could speak again. “Why not? I'm a prince returned from the dead and you're a campfire legend. Want to escape and ruin the Temple's perfect containment record?”

Keith pulled the borrowed toga into a more comfortable arrangement around himself and smiled back. “Sounds awesome. Let's do it.”

Kelezar had barricaded them in what looked to be the acolyte's breakroom by the simple method of shoving one of the heavy trestle tables against the door. He pulled that back seemingly without effort and peered through the small window cut into the door. “Clear,” he muttered.

“Good.” Keith adjusted his toga again, which was too large for him, and winced at his bruises. Kelezar's backhanded blow across his torso had left a huge spreading bruise, and there was another on the inside of his right wrist, where the monk had batted his fist aside. There were more on his back from his exertions in the arena, and there were two sore points on his collarbones; his fingers found a pair of small scabs where the Galra's toe-claws had gone right through his under-armor. Keith looked around the kitchen for anything that he could use as a weapon, but the only knives there were small blunt things resembling butterknives.

“Any idea of how we're going to do this?” Kelezar asked. “Been too out of it to plan anything.”

Keith shrugged and pulled a broom out of a nearby closet. The bristly head was worn and ratty-looking, but the handle was thick and heavy and looked like it could be of some use. “I'm not too sure myself, except for one thing—the doors will open for monks and members of the royal family. That's you, right?”

“Probably, if they're gene-locks keyed to Grandfather's bloodline. Worth a shot, anyway.” Kelezar eased the door open with care. “Who told you that?”

“Lobosh, although I don't think that that was his real name,” Keith replied, using a butterknife to jimmy the broom-head off of the stick. “One of the prisoners here.”

“Hmmm. Want to rescue that one?”

“He's dead. They made me fight him before we had our turn.”

Kelezar heard the anger in Keith's voice and gave him a sympathetic look. “A friend?”

“No.” Keith said shortly. “But not an enemy. Not even during his last battle. Let's get out of here. This place makes me sick.”

They eased their way out of the breakroom and moved off down the hall, eyes watchful and ears alert for any sound, looking for any door or window that might lead outside. Unfortunately, neither of them had any idea of what the building's layout looked like, and the place was a maze. The one upside was that this part of the Temple seemed to be deserted at the moment. “Probably working on the Arena side of things,” Keith said when Kelezar commented on that.

Kelezar vented a deep _hmph._ “We'd better find our way out before the suns set, then. One thing I do remember hearing about this place before I got into trouble was that the Arena closes down at night. The monks think that the fights can only happen while the two death-gods are watching.”

“Death-gods?” Keith asked, looking up at his companion.

“The suns. Big sun's the good one, 'cause it hangs around the horizon and keeps things lit and warm at night. Small sun's the bad one, 'cause the worst heat happens when it rises, and then it just drops down below horizon in the evening and takes its light and heat with it, not caring who might freeze and walk into things while it's out. There's more to it than that, sure, but I don't know anything about it.” Kelezar scratched absently at his neck, where stripes of thickened skin bore witness to years of wearing a collar. “Whole different set of gods have jurisdiction at night, so the monks go off-duty, and they'll notice that someone's stolen some of their clean laundry.”

Keith was privately relieved that Kelezar hadn't had to kill anyone to get their clothing. Even so, he felt like a very short Jedi and had to tie up his hems under the sash to keep from tripping. They did discover a locked door later, and to their very great relief it opened under Kelezar's touch, revealing a staircase. This led up to a warmer and more comfortable-looking part of the Temple; the air was fresher up here, too, and smelled a little like cactus.

Kelezar sniffed thoughtfully at the air. “We're near a garden. They're famous for growing sacred plants and things. Some of them will grow nowhere else.”

“Good,” Keith said, “gardens need sunlight. That means it's either open to the sky or has windows that I can break. Failing all else, we can grab a gardener and make him show us an exit.”

“Maybe,” Kelezar said dubiously. “I'd rather not. Bonirams don't scare easy.”

As it was, they were forced to move far slower than Keith liked. Apparently, garden duty was more important than arena duty to some portion of the Temple's population, and they had to duck at odd moments into side corridors and rooms to avoid being spotted. This was difficult; it was impossible to tell at a glance what doors might be locked or which rooms might be unoccupied, and while Keith was small and fast, Kelezar was impossible to hide. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they were seen. Still, they were able to find a way out into the open air just as the suns were setting—a heavy blast door with one of the special locks that only certain hands could open, and it let them out into a paradise of thorns. Keith couldn't help but stare at the wild profusion of strange greenery around him. He'd gone on school trips to conservatories back home and had seen the strange and fearsome desert growths out back of his father's house back on Earth, and had known and loved them for their prickly attitudes and wild beauty. There were things growing out here that would make a saguaro wilt with envy, and huge fragrant blooms that outshone any flowering cactus that Earth could produce.

Kelezar let out a long, low whistle. “Sacred garden. _Really_ sacred. Nobody's allowed in here but the Abbot and the most senior monks, and maybe the Governor if they spent a few hours ritually purifying him. Head for the south wall, and try not to touch anything.”

Keith didn't have to be told twice. Some of those thorns were as long as his hand and no few of them looked to be dripping venom. “South wall?”

“City-side. One of the ways the Temple's nice to its neighbors is that the wall's lowest over there. People can see inside if they get up on the roofs of the nearest buildings.” Kelezar smiled grimly. “The folks who live there do good business renting the rooftops out as meditation space. We might be able to get out that way.”

They found a path heading in the right direction, although once again, the going was slow. The path was narrow and twisting, and alien cacti reached thorny arms out to them from all directions. Keith's stolen broomstick turned out to be useful there for pushing aside twisted branches that were even thornier than Tilla. They had only just reached the wall, a great thick construction of huge stone blocks that had to be at least twelve feet high, when they were plunged into a sudden, chilly darkness. Keith looked up and saw that the lesser sun had dropped behind the Temple's roof, and its huge red sibling was a vast blood-colored smear over half of the visible horizon. Distantly, they heard an outcry, and then the unmistakable blare of an alarm.

“Damn,” Kelezar muttered. “Forgot about the nyarlogi. I'm gonna pick you up and put you on top of the wall, okay? Then you get out of the way while I climb over. We've got to get out of here _now.”_

“Over there,” Keith said, pointing to a middling-sized boulder that had been leaned up against the wall a little distance away. “What about the nyarlogi?”

Kelezar grabbed him and lifted him up to where he could climb up onto the top of the wall before answering, stepping up onto the boulder and reaching for the top of the wall. Like many very large people, climbing was a difficult proposition for him at the best of times. “Those big lizardy things get their feed from the arena,” he grunted, hauling himself up with difficulty. “If not live meat— _oof—_ then the leftovers from the other bouts. You and me— _aargh—_ would've made a feast for 'em— _ouch—_ but we've sort of opted out by not being dead.” Kelezar's teeth flashed in a quick grin as he pulled himself up onto the top of the wall. “Problem is, they're pack hunters, and can be trained to track certain prey...”

There was a long, tearing howl and a chorus of answering screeches that nearly made Kelezar topple over the side. He caught himself before he could fall, thankfully, and eased himself down in a more controlled fashion. “Like us,” he finished, and reached up for Keith. “Come on. We'll need to find a place where we can fight them off, and something to fight them off with.”

Keith let Kelezar lift him down, glancing at his salvaged broomstick and guessing that it wouldn't do. Not against something that sounded like nyarlogi. He was about to comment on that when he felt a strange shock run through him. Through the Lion-bond! He concentrated on that for a moment and felt Allura and Hunk running hard, homing in on him. They were here! He grinned up at Kelezar. “We'll have help. Come on!”

Keith took off down a handy street, running as fast as he could go. Kelezar soon caught up, his long legs making up the difference with little effort. People scattered out of their way when they burst out onto a main road, but Keith never broke stride, even when he heard the nyarlogi call again behind them. It didn't matter. His pack was here, they were coming, he had to go and meet them. Nothing could stand against them when they were together! _I'm here, I'm here, I'm coming,_ were the words from the heart of his being, and he felt the others hear him and respond. Shouts were ringing out around him, and alarms, but he barely noticed until a ringing screech of a hunting nyarlogi split the air right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and nearly fell. Coming up the street behind them were a pack of creatures that, as his Uncle Jake might have said, were as near as dammit to being Utahraptors as made no nevermind, and right behind them on hoverbikes were the monks. Kelezar grunted and scooped him up, shoving him under one arm and putting on a burst of speed that left Keith gasping. He could hear the hammering of that mighty heart right through the Galra's side, and dropped his stick when Kelezar thundered down an alley, vaulted up a stack of crates, and heaved them both onto the low roof of a shed without slowing down much. Crates crashed behind them and tiles flew as he scrambled over the arch of the roof, leaped across another narrow alley onto another low building, and then slid down the other side to the street below, nearly squashing a passing pedestrian and tipping over a pie-peddler's cart. Ignoring the screams and curses, Kelezar ran on, puffing like a locomotive.

“Done this before?” Keith gasped.

“Twice,” Kelezar panted. “Not with... nyarlogi... after me... though. Can't keep... up this pace... much longer. How... much further?”

Before Keith could answer, a tall, lean figure in plain body armor sprinted toward them, used its quarterstaff as a pole vault and slammed both feet into Kelezar's chest. Breath knocked out of him and balance shattered, he went over backwards like a tree, losing his grip on Keith as he did so. Keith fell and rolled end over end several times, coming upright in time to see Hunk leveling one of Modhri's blasters at Kelezar's face. Kelezar was wheezing painfully, dazed and unable to move.

“Hunk!” Keith yelled hoarsely, “Hunk, no! Don't shoot! That's not Zarkon!”

“Are you sure? He looks like Zarkon.” Hunk studied the supine Galra. “He looks like one and a half Zarkons, actually. How'd he get so big?”

“Same way you did, dummy,” Keith snapped, willing his shaking legs to support him. “Besides, would the ruler of a multi-galactic empire run around town in his underwear? Allura, you're going to owe him an apology. I couldn't have gotten out of the Temple without him.”

“S... save it,” Kelezar forced out between gasps, struggling to get up. “Ny... nyarlogi... coming. The monks...”

“ _Nyarlogi?”_ Allura said anxiously. “They have nyarlogi?”

“What's a nyarlogi?” Hunk asked.

Right on cue, a twenty-foot-long, tan-and-chestnut-striped saurian predator that probably weighed more than half a ton rounded the far corner, stared at them with pitiless golden eagle eyes, and made a sound like someone twisting the front end off of a Buick.

“That's a nyarlogi,” Allura said grimly. “Shoot it!”

The monster charged, gaping maw showing steak-knife teeth. Hunk yelled in terror and fired, blasting big chunks out of the walls, the street, and the monster. It collapsed with a dying scream that brought a furious response from nowhere near far enough away. Kelezar dragged himself to his feet with a moan. “You got a getaway vehicle nearby, Miss?” he asked breathlessly, “'cause there's more where that one came from.”

“And they sound angry,” Keith added.

Allura nodded, although she gave Kelezar a dubious look. “Back that way, and not far. Kolanth set us down in a park when we felt you come out of the Temple. I'm not sure that you'll fit in any of the lander's seats, sir.”

Kelezar shrugged. “I'll manage. Run!”

They turned and ran, another howling screech from the approaching pack spurring them onward as fast as they could go. Keith's breath was burning in his lungs and his feet felt raw by the time the  _Chimera's_ shuttle came into view, surrounded by a curious crowd and one zealous policeman who was trying to issue a parking ticket and not having much luck. 

Allura glowered at the crowed of inconvenient civilians and touched her comm. “Kolanth, we've got Keith and a friend of his, and we're within thirty  _amets_ of the ship. Scatter the crowd and let us in, please.”

“ _I see you,”_ Kolanth's voice said in her ear, and a sudden white flare from the shuttle's flashers and a whoosh of hot wind sent the crowd scrambling for cover. _“That big fellow with you--”_

“Isn't Zarkon. I've already knocked him over once, so please don't do anything worse.” Allura heard a triumphant yowl from the nyarlogi pack close on their heels, and the startled screams of the locals. “We need to leave instantly, as I'm sure you've noticed.”

The shuttle's hatch sprang open, and the fugitives put on one last desperate burst of speed, piling through that inviting opening in a gasping rush. The hatch slammed closed immediately and the shuttle lifted without delay, leaving the park full of angry saurians and disappointed monks. Keith didn't care. He was exhausted and very sore all over, and he wasn't alone in that. Kelezar lay sprawled on the floor, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, and he was clutching at his chest where a pair of bootprint-shaped bruises were forming. Hunk, who was not built for speed, was also looking a little the worse for wear, although Allura hardly seemed out of breath. “Is everyone all right?” she asked.

“Gimme a minute,” Hunk panted, wiping sweat out of his eyes. “Little pooped out here. How you doing over there, Keith?”

“Could be better,” Keith replied, examining his feet, which had bruises and scrapes on the soles from the rough pavement. “I'm going to need a little time in the infirmary, maybe, and a lot of sleep. Kelezar?”

“I think your lady-friend cracked my collarbone, and maybe a rib or two,” Kelezar replied in a pained voice. “I'll live.”

“I'm sorry,” Allura said contritely, “but I saw you carrying Keith like that, and I thought--”

Kelezar waved a hand dismissively. “Not your fault. It doesn't help that I look like the Emperor, I know. It's worth a little pain, to be alive and not eaten by nyarlogi. Just let me rest a little.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my ankles and knees hurt,” Allura said, observing the huge sprawl of him. “Are you sure that you'll be all right lying on the floor like that?”

Kelezar puffed an amused breath and indicated one of the seats. “I couldn't fit in these things if I shrunk in the wash. It's okay. The last time that I was taken offworld, they crammed me into a livestock carrier. This floor is nice and roomy and nothing's ever pooped on it. I'm fine.”

Hunk stared at him. “Somebody put _you_ in a carrier? And you let them?”

Kelezar hissed. “There are ways. Don't want to talk about it right now.”

Keith shook his head and forced his stiffening muscles to work long enough to get himself into one of the seats. “I'm too tired to tell the story twice. Let's just say that we both had a bad time of it.”

He was drowsing in his seat by the time Kolanth tucked the shuttle into its bay aboard the _Chimera_ and Hunk had to help him limp over to the Castle, where they were met at the airlock by Coran. “Welcome back, Paladins!” he said with what to Keith's ears was oppressive cheerfulness. “Well done! There you are, Keith, a little banged up, perhaps, but that's only natural in a daring escape. It'll give your mother something real to fret about at least, there's no greater waste of energy than expending it on needless worrying. She was not at all happy to be left behind, and—by the Ancients! Look out, Zarkon's right behind you, and mostly naked!”

Kelezar sighed and laid a weary hand over his face. “I'm not Zarkon.”

“He really isn't,” Keith said.

“Are you sure?” Coran said suspiciously. “I'll admit that he's taller than when I saw him last, but after ten thousand years of being hopped up on Quintessence, he might have put on a few inches. I know that it worked wonders for my mother's vegetable garden. She used to blend a wonderful fertilizer mix that made the elba beans shoot up like rockets! Of course, they exploded when they got to the top of the trellis. We thought it was great fun, but the neighbors did complain of cracking windows, and the groundskeepers were terribly upset because the things kept seeding themselves in the formal gardens and ambushing the guests. Things really got out of hand when they tried to militarize them. The green Paladin at that time was especially interested--”

“Coran,” Kolanth groaned.

Kelezar glanced at Keith as Coran prattled on. “Is he always this silly?”

“It runs in the family,” Allura replied. “Coran!”

“--but it was too expensive in the long run. Plus, they kept getting into the jet intakes and throttling the engines. And the pilots too, come to think of it. What?”

“Where are the others?” Allura said in a dulcet tone that promised murder if Coran didn't shut up and start being helpful.

“Up in the lounge, of course.” Coran twirled his mustache and strode off toward the lifts. “Come on, mustn't keep them waiting, they're all anxious to see you.”

“Idiot,” Kolanth muttered sourly.

Hunk shot a considering look at Coran's back and eased Keith into motion again. “Maybe not. After all, Zaianne has to stay close to the bridge while Allura's out, right? And the others have to stay with her in case of attacks, and to keep her company. You know how she's been worrying. Besides, how do you think she would've reacted when she saw the big guy here? Coran just gets silly when he's surprised. Zaianne goes all angry ninja, and that would be bad right now. This way, Coran can warn her not to do that.”

“I'm not even going to ask what that meant,” Kelezar muttered.

“We need to get you a shirt or something,” Hunk said critically. “With words on it in thirty languages, all saying 'Not The Emperor'. It would save time.”

Allura giggled and keyed a lift. “Or cause arguments. Not everybody believes what they read.”

Keith shrugged. “So? While they're arguing, we can walk away. Ow. Or take a nap.”

“I'd prefer a pair of pants, anyway,” Kelezar said, fingering with distaste the rather tattered loin-wrap he had improvised. “I remember pants. Pants are nice.”

“We'll get around to it,” Keith promised.

No sooner had they entered the lounge when a beloved voice called out, “Khaeth!”

“Mom!” Keith responded instantly and lurched eagerly forward, throwing himself into his mother's arms, too weary to hold back his tears of relief when she held him tight.

“ _There_ you are,” she breathed, “I had feared losing you. Battered but not broken, eh?”

“And a little singed,” he said, “but mostly okay.”

Her hand ran through his hair, finding the frizzled ends and running a thumb over what was left of his eyebrows. “Indeed, and without your under-armor. We'll have to make you a new suit. What were you... ye gods.”

Keith didn't even look up. “He's not Zarkon. His name's Kelezar and he's on our side. Hah. I've always wanted to say this. He followed me home, Mom. Can I keep him?”

“Kelezar Szaah'Tirr, m'Lady,” Kelezar said in a tired voice. “I'd bow, but I'd fall over, and I've done that too often today to want to do it again. That boy of yours—hey!”

This time Keith looked up. Tilla had appeared with her usual mysterious stealth and was whiffling Kelezar all over, the way she always did when meeting strangers. Kelezar had the simple good sense to stand still and not move. She did not growl, but she did vent a surprised snort and a short bark that summoned her mate. Soluk sniffed him all over as well, and then both of them stepped over and sniffed Keith from top to toe. Soluk uttered a bark-and-crackle that sounded downright commanding, and Keith couldn't help but smile when Lizenne replied acidly, “Oh, _now_ you want me to do a little magic, you oversized lizard? When just a few days ago you and your lady pinned us to the floor and scolded us roundly for doing something rather less in-depth? Why not do it yourself? You've the energy to spare.”

Tilla _gronk_ ed impatiently, and added a churr and a whistle that sounded a little apologetic.

“Yes, yes, I'm aware that it may be important,” Lizenne replied in a gentler tone. “Kelezar, do be seated, you look exhausted, and... oh, dear. Allura, that's your shoe size. Coran, stop smirking, it's unseemly. Keith, you sit down, too. Helenva, Hunk, this is going to take a little time and a lot of energy. Would you please warm up that basket of tanrook buns I made this morning?”

Soluk _gronk_ ed eagerly.

“Oh, no you don't. The price for your share of those is to mend the damage. Keith is positively piebald and Allura came all too close to splitting Kelezar's breastbone. You yourself have been nagging at me to take it easy, and thus I will not do both! Get to it, dragon, they're in pain.”

Keith allowed himself to be settled down on the couch next to Kelezar, and the pair of them heaved huge sighs of relief when the dragon rumbled a long string of crackling sounds over them that fizzed in their blood and eased their hurts. It was interesting to watch his bruises leach away, too, like ink being rinsed out of thick paper. Hunk and Helenva returned a minute later with a bag of beverage packets and a big basket of something that smelled heavenly. Keith realized that the hurried snack he'd had from the monk's breakroom had worn off long since, and from the way Kelezar was staring at the basket, he hadn't seen real food in years. Indeed, he might not have.

“My Lady, I worship you forever,” the huge Galra said in a faint voice, looking up into Helenva's face.

It had probably been meant as a mere expression of gratitude, but he stopped mid-reach for a bun, staring at her in stricken silence. Helenva looked very surprised as well for a moment, but smiled and patted his cheek. “Let Lizenne do her magic first,” she murmured in a velvet voice that raised a blush on Kelezar's craggy features.

Keith nudged his companion in the ribs with one elbow. “I don't recommend it,” he warned. “She's dangerous.”

“Best kind,” Kelezar said a little breathlessly, watching her lean, powerfully-muscled body avidly as she moved away.

“Eat, boys,” Lizenne said, standing behind them and resting her hands on their shoulders. “It'll give you something to do while I work.”

Keith grabbed a bun and bit in, his senses reeling so much at the savory flavor that he barely noticed the soft chant or the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He did notice her rueful laughter, however, and tore his attention away from his third bun _(third bun? When did I get to the third? Doesn't matter, buns good)_ to look up curiously at her. Lizenne gave him a dry smile and ran her fingers fondly through his hair. “Congratulations upon your breatkthrough, Keith, you're a full-blown Purifactor. That's very nearly as rare as a Perfect Mirror, or a Technomage for that matter. And you, sir, let me congratulate you on being the first to feel the touch of so unusual a talent in more than three thousand years. He's even given you an immunity to curses.”

“Purifactor?” Kolanth asked, although Coran and Allura hissed in surprise.

Lizenne sat down opposite Keith and snagged a couple of buns, tossing one to Soluk as she did so. “It's a potent but limited art. All mages learn a little of it, to cleanse a person, place, or thing of bad influences. It's related to the healing arts, although it has little effect on most physical injuries. What makes it so important, and such a threat to people like Haggar, is that it can be used to not only burn away hexes, but reverse their effects, and even leave enough of an influence in someone so that they can never be hexed again. Before you ask, Keith, _yes._ If you had broken through before Haggar hurled that big curse at us, you might have been able to stop it and reduce her to ashes at the same time. Unfortunately, it would have fried you to a crisp as well. One of the reasons why Purifactors are so rare is that they often miscalculate or get carried away, and wind up self-immolating.”

“He set me on fire,” Kelezar rumbled, “and I came back to life. It was like swallowing a sun. When I woke up, I had to break out of my own skin.”

Lizenne gave him a puzzled frown, then turned to Keith. “Tell me everything that happened, starting with what occurred when you recovered from the drug that the blue pirate sprayed you with. Everything, and leave out no details.”

Keith was happy to comply. Nobody interrupted him, although there were some gasps and angry noises from the others at how he had been treated, and a few low-voiced curses from his mother. Hunk's face crumpled up like a used handkerchief at his description of his being forced to kill Lobosh, and Keith didn't complain when his friend sat down and wrapped a big arm around him. Keith was too weary and had been too lonely to object now. He had some difficulty explaining exactly what he'd done to burn the hexes out of Kelezar, but Lizenne merely nodded. “You're a strong one, all right, especially with the Lion backing you up... although it will only lend you strength if you ask it. Interesting. I can teach you a few techniques and disciplines that will help to keep that strength under firm control, and you will study them diligently, young man. The only reason why you didn't give yourself a serious burn was that your under-armor absorbed the worst of the heat for you. Kelezar.”

“Mmph?” Kelezar said around a mouthful of tanrook. “Yes'm?”

“What the hell were you doing in an arena with three very strong hexes embedded in you? Most Golrazi try not to get into that much trouble.”

Kelezar snorted a weary laugh. “I'm not most Golrazi. For starters, I look like my Grandpa.”

There was a startled exclamation from Modhri. “Kelezar Szaah'Tirr... that's the branch of the Lineage that descends from Caelmar Szaah'Tirr?”

“My Grandmother.” Kelezar squinted at Modhri. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

Modhri chuckled breathlessly. “I'd be very surprised if you recognized me. I was about nine or ten years old, and you couldn't have been much older. Your parents were visiting the Capital on Galran Prime, and House Ghurap'Han had offered to house you all for the visit. I remember the name, because absolutely everybody was required to help ready the household for your family's arrival. Nonstop housecleaning from basement to attics, and the gardens and grounds had to be perfect. Lizenne's Matriarch swanked about her having royal guests for weeks.”

A broad smile spread over Kelezar's face, his eyes taking on a nostalgic sheen. “I remember that trip! It was a nice place, too, with the private woodland and all the secret passages in the house to explore... and the mud puddle in the back yard.”

Lizenne let out a hoot of laughter. “Yes! It had been a rainy spring, and they'd never been able to drain that spot properly. I forget who started it, but it was you and your brothers, and me and mine, and poor Modhri here were soon all embroiled in the best mud fight ever. That'll teach proud parents not to dress half-grown cubs in silks, eh?”

“Caught hell from Mom about it afterward, I know that,” Kelezar chuckled. “We all looked like slime-bears by the time our minders found us... that's right. Uncle Bardu picked Pergron up by the scruff, and then you bit him on the leg to make him let go and he fell over face-first into the slop himself. Then it was him and six guards trying to net us, and us scrambling around trying not to be netted, and you and me and Modhri escaped and washed off in the fountain.”

Modhri nodded. “The big one carved from Niltrene green-veined marble, with that pretty waterfall and reflecting pool. I'd spent a whole day helping to scrub it out, so I felt that we had the right to use it. Then I showed you my secret path to the fruit garden.”

“Tree-ripe epplots,” Lizenne sighed wistfully, “talniss berries, lursa florets, baslens, rolth roots, and even a bed of sweet lanri herb to roll in. What a lovely day that was.”

“I had the runs later, but I wasn't sorry.” Kelezar heaved a long sigh. “I was always sort of sad that we never got the chance to stay again. Dad didn't make any friends in the Capital, and it came back to bite him later. That's how I got into trouble.”

Coran humphed. “Politics, eh. So you're a prince?”

“Yeah, for all that I've probably been declared dead.” Kelezar rubbed at the marks on his neck. “Grandma didn't like Zarkon one little bit. Korbex and Golraz—First or Second—have never really gotten along. I know that she and Haggar hated each other, and Haggar couldn't touch her because, hey, Imperial Consort. Nobody was really unhappy when Grandma left once Mom and her brothers were old enough. Mom didn't like Grandpa or Haggar much either, and she moved heaven, earth, and my Dad—and he was the tough one—to get the family out of the Center before palace politics got us all killed. There were more princes over there than just us, and competition was pretty nasty. You could either be happy, hedonistic, and harmless, or you could plot nonstop to reduce the ranks some. No middle ground.”

“Sounds about right,” Coran said thoughtfully. “There was a fair amount of that going on among old Alfor's cousins out on the Colonies, back in the day. Lotor's at the top of the heap now.”

Kelezar bared his teeth in distaste. “Him! Nasty creature. It's just as well that his clutch had no girl-cub in it. Theyd've killed each other if Haggar hadn't stolen the girl first. Wouldn't put it past him to kill every brother, half-brother, and cousin that got too close, harmless or not, if it got him a little bit ahead. He wasn't the start of my troubles, though. It was my Dad.”

Zaianne frowned. “He enjoyed power politics?”

“He didn't like Grandpa either, or some of Lizenne's uncles.” Kelezar selected another bun and held it up for Soluk, who'd been looking mournfully at the almost-empty basket. “He couldn't strike directly at Grandpa, of course, but a lot of the Ghurap'Han crowd got right up his nose, and they rode high in the Emperor's favor in those days.”

Kolanth nodded slowly. “Ghurap'Han has many holdings and industries that are vital to the Core Worlds. I can see how a disruption there might cause Zarkon some difficulty, and the Empire itself a lot of trouble.”

Kelezar bared his fangs in a grimace. “Got that right. One of the more annoying ones was Governor of Polnachar, and was so bad at it that the natives revolted all the time. He quit in disgust and told a bunch of lies to his bosses, so Grandpa ordered the destruction of that planet. Dad had really liked the place, so he started to plot. The first thing he did was offer my brother Ubantash up as an alliance to Ghurap'Han. They had a fearsome daughter they were looking to make a good match for. That'd be you, Lizenne.”

Lizenne hissed. “Yes, me. Mother had been forcing me into attending public events where I was required to mingle with all sorts of young hopefuls. Your brother attempted to get a closer look at me than was socially acceptable, and words cannot describe my wrath when I found out that I'd been affianced to him without my consent. I would have killed him not fifteen minutes after the ceremony, you know.”

“I did know. So did Dad. He was sort of counting on it, which was why he offered for you.”

“Wait just a minute!” Keith said, staring at his companions in horrified disbelief. “Your dad was willing to sacrifice one of his own sons just to move a plot along?”

“Sure,” Kelezar replied with a shrug. “It's not all that uncommon, 'specially among the High Families.”

“Galran politics tend to be rather bloody in spots,” Lizenne said grimly. “Once a boy has reached his adulthood, he is required to prove his worth to the Lineage that bore and raised him. That means that he has to be good at _something,_ be it command, governance, science, or trade. If he is not good for anything—and Ubantash wasn't, trust me on that—then he is expendable. The pack cannot afford the dead weight, you see. It's a custom that is older than the Empire, even older than civilization itself, descending directly from ancient times, when we were nothing more than reasonably bright animals. There is still a fair amount of that ancient savagery within us, especially while we are young adults.”

Kelezar shook his head admiringly. “You sure proved that. You were the cub of the Wild and no mistake, and you would've displayed the carcass in the old-fashioned way before taking off. That would've given Dad the right to declare _Khesh'turg-rava_ against your Lineage, and start picking off their properties. He wanted the Nelargo Shipyard broken down for scrap in particular.”

Lizenne's eyebrows nearly lifted off of her head. “Ye gods, that would have been a disaster for the family, and it would have weakened the military across that whole region. Our Matriarch might even have been moved to declare _kheshveg_ herself, and damned us completely by attempting to destroy an entire branch of the Imperial Lineage. We would have had Ghamparva lining up and down the block to take their own revenge on both Lineages—all of their ships are built at Nelargo, and their Order-House is practically next door! And then our allies... that could have started a civil war.”

Kelezar smiled grimly. “Yeah. Some of us were really glad when you hopped in that funny egg-cluster ship of yours and flew away. Unfortunately for us, someone up at Parzurak could connect the dots. Dad was under suspicion, all right, either of plotting against the Empire or just being an idiot, and the rest of us had to prove that we were better-behaved. We were told to go hunting subversive elements, just to make sure that Grandma and Mom hadn't 'corrupted' us with their viewpoints, either. My brothers all found some nice easy targets and passed. I got sent after the Blade of Marmora, 'cause I'd been heard saying in public that Zarkon had his head up his butt about some things, and everybody wanted me gone. The more I learned about them, the better I liked them. Grandma was right, Mom was right, they were right, and so were a whole bunch of others—it was something past ninety-nine hundred years since Grandpa should've retired, and he wasn't going to do that without a lot of persuasion. I found the Blades, all right, and offered myself up as a recruit. It took them a while to accept that I was serious about it.”

“Caution,” Modhri murmured. “They can't afford to make mistakes. Not with the Ghamparva and the Emperor out to destroy them. To have a prince approach them would have been... worrying.”

Kelezar nodded. “I knew that, and was patient. They assigned me a contact, ran some tests, did some research of their own. It looked good to both of us. Then me and my contact got spotted during a training run in a power plant. His fault, not mine. I won't go into details, 'cause I swore an oath not to, but things ended up so that only one of us could escape. If I got caught, it was just me—the Lineage would declare me dead and cover the whole thing up to avoid another scandal. If he got caught, the whole Order would be in danger. I sent him on, and the Ghamparva took me back to Parzurak in chains.”

Helenva narrowed her eyes. “I'm surprised that they didn't kill you.”

“Prince,” Kelezar said simply. “Dead, alive, embarrassing, or treasonous, I'm still of the Emperor's blood. That's not spilled in a hurry, even by them. Even by Grandpa. They gave me to his witch for questioning. I don't remember much, except pain.” He shuddered. “Then I was dead. Like Keith said, three big fat hexes got set in, then I got awarded to some more obviously loyal cousin or other as a gladiator-slave. Not sure which one. I've got lots. I spent years that way, with less smarts than a handful of pocket lint, and then they made me fight this guy.”

“Thus forcing his breakthrough. Interesting.” Lizenne contemplated the middle distance for a moment. “What will you do now, Kelezar?”

He fished out the last bun and broke it in half, handing one part up to Soluk. “Not sure. I don't think that I can go home, or back to the Center. Not without getting into more trouble. I sure as hell can't go back to Boniro. I'd still like to join the Blades, if they'll have me. I suppose I'd make a decent pirate, if I could find a corsair that wasn't too particular about where their crew came from...”

Allura caught a flicker of motion out of one corner of her eye; Kolanth had signaled to Helenva and Zaianne, and the three of them slipped away into a corner for a private conversation while Kelezar explored what possibilities might be open to him. She knew from personal experience that there wasn't much. She herself had only one possible occupation open to her now, and had no choice but to continue in it. Kelezar didn't even have that. He did, however, seem to have an advocate in the room, if Helenva's expression and body language were any indication. Kolanth looked reluctant, and Zaianne firm. As Allura watched, Zaianne said something that made Kolanth nod grudgingly. Helenva's nod was triumphant, and she flitted out of the room in a twinkling. Possibly off to contact Kolivan and get his opinion on the matter, she thought. She was well-aware that the Blade of Marmora could make great use of someone like Kelezar, and how many people had actually seen the Emperor in the flesh, anyway? Very few, she surmised, and propagandists always made their subjects out to be bigger, stronger, and prettier than they really were. With the proper outfit and training, Kelezar would look more like Zarkon than Zarkon did. And if Lotor and his father, and possibly the other princes, however many of them were left, were to be swept away on the tides of history, the Blade of Marmora would have a genuine and genetically legitimate candidate for the throne. One that would favor them, and who would not follow in his grandsire's aims. In truth, he seemed a decent sort, and he now owed a member of the Voltron team his life and his freedom. Her own diplomacy training stirred. Oh yes, there were great possibilities here, and the freedom and continued survival of the last remaining population of her own people was one of them. Kelezar was far more valuable than he realized.

Helenva slipped back into the room a few minutes later, communicating to her colleagues with a smug smile and a few hand signals that she had won. Kelezar might have followed Keith home, but Helenva was the one who was going to keep him. Allura contemplated disputing that claim for her own purposes, but dropped that notion. She was years, perhaps decades away from the point where Kelezar would be discussing Imperial policy with her on an equal basis, and he needed the training that only the Blade of Marmora could supply. Helenva in particular would be far better able to keep him focused on his studies and out of trouble while he learned than Allura would. _I have enough responsibilities just seeing to the Voltron Force,_ she told herself sternly, _let them have this one. They will remember that, and he will remember that I let him make his own choice. I could have kept him hostage here, but I let him go._

Kelezar had finished the last bit of tanrook bun and was rubbing at one eye with the heel of one hand. His massive shoulders were drooping wearily, his color was poor, and he looked in desperate need of a bath and some sleep. So did Keith, for that matter, although the boy was making a brave attempt to stay alert. “I suppose that you can start your own gym,” Keith was saying, “yeah. From newt to neutronium in sixteen months, or your money back.”

Kelezar yawned hugely. “Nah. That's a scam and you know it. I got all that bulk from a hex, and you said yourself that it was killing me. I don't do hexes.”

“You should see what the bodybuilding industry gets up to at home,” Hunk said glumly. “I know that professional football alone would pay Haggar like a zillion bucks to buff up the major leaguers. Hey, Keith, what if we introduced her to the big-name sports guys? She can turn them all into sporty mini-Robeasts, and then she could retire to Aruba and stop bothering us so much because she'd be too busy getting drunk on mai tais and working on her tan. Hey, Allura, do Alteans tan?”

“We like beach parties as much as anyone,” Allura said, trying not to think of Haggar in a swimsuit. “That isn't important right now. Keith, you need rest, and so does Kelezar.”

Zaianne and Helenva were suddenly simply _there,_ in finest Blade fashion. “After a wash, I think,” Zaianne said gently, reaching a hand out to her son. “Come on, Khaeth. I'll tuck you in.”

Keith suddenly could think of nothing better. “Okay, Mom,” he said around a jaw-cracking yawn, not in the least embarrassed.

“I've had one of the bigger guestrooms fixed up,” Helenva offered her hand to Kelezar, who gazed hopefully at her before taking it. “Shall I show you where it is?”

“Sure,” Kelezar said, levering himself up off of the couch. “Lead on.”

Allura watched them go in thoughtful silence, then turned to Kolanth. “Kolivan will accept him?”

Kolanth nodded. “He proved himself years ago with his self-sacrifice. Attempts were made to rescue him just after his capture, none successful. We thought that we'd lost him for good. Helenva will let him make his choice after he's rested. It wouldn't be fair to approach him while he's that weary.”

Hunk waved an admonishing hand. “You're still stacking the deck. I saw the way he was looking at her. He'll follow her anywhere now.”

Kolanth smiled. “Caught. Still, we're going to need him later. Once Voltron deals with Zarkon, the Empire—or what will be left of it—will need an Heir. I would rather have him on the Throne than Lotor, wouldn't you?”

Hunk thought that over. “Yeah. He's a pretty cool guy. Think she'll choose him?”

Kolanth laughed. “Saw that, did you? She'll make him a fine Imperial Consort if so, and it would be one less thing for Lance to worry about.”

 

 


	23. Heroes and Villains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who tried to read the new chapter earlier, I apologize. Somehow instead of posting the new chapter, Ao3 reposted chapter 22 again. So I deleted it and reposted it, and hopefully there won't be anything odd this time. I am most heartbroken about the fact that I had to delete chapter 22 and repost that, too, which meant we lost the wonderful comments you all gave us for that chapter. T_T

Chapter 23: Heroes and Villains

 

A sinister figure cloaked and hooded all in black crept down the palace hall with Villanous intent, one aim firmly in mind and confident in its abilities to carry it out. Nimbly did it avoid the household security, cleverly did it elude the attention of the guards, and stealthily did it make its way to the royal suite. One room in particular held its interest, and with care and deliberation this dark figure slid from shadow to shadow in its approach, taking cover where necessary behind items of furniture and large potted plants. At last, it peered slyly through the open doorway and espied its objective: the little princess playing with a dolly in the middle of the room. No other person was nearby; a golden opportunity. So thinking, it gathered itself for a leap and launched itself into the room, snatching up the little princess, who let out a piercing squeal. Immediately, a side door flew open and one of the princes dashed in, shouting, “An intruder! Help! An intruder has captured the princess! Oh, where is the Great Hero?”

Right on cue, another side door flew open, and a handsome, dashingly-costumed young fellow sprang forward, brandishing a sword. The fact that the sword was made of wood and about as sharp as a tennis ball did not seem to worry him in the slightest. “The Great Hero is here!” he proclaimed, leveling the sword at the intruder, “Release the princess at once, you Villain!”

“Never!” the black-clad creature snarled, clutching the giggling princess to its chest. “A hundred heroes have fallen before me, and a hundred more shall fall ere I fail in my evil aims!”

“Oh, help,” the princess forced out through her mirth, “O Great Hero, please save me!”

The Villain shifted his grip on the princess and drew his own sword, equally wooden and dull, although the princess had painted it pink and decorated it with a rather attractive floral design earlier. There had been a bit of an argument about that, but there was no actual law stating that the bad guy couldn't have a floral weapon. After all, it would confuse the enemy, and might have power over plants. Some plants were really dangerous, it was agreed, and thus the Dread Sword of Floral Pink was born.

“Your life is mine!” the Villain declared, and engaged in a vigorous fencing match with the Great Hero while a crowd of other princes and princesses cheered them on from the side doors. There was much fancy swordplay and many near misses, and a good deal of dramatic squealing from the little princess, who was getting joggled around most amusingly. At last, the Great Hero knocked the Dread Sword of Floral Pink from the Villain's hand.

“Aha!” The Great Hero panted, “I have you now!”

The Villain barked a Villanous laugh. “Gotta catch me first,” he gloated, dancing on long muscular legs, and took off running, the princess slung over his shoulder and hooting with glee.

This was the fun part. The Great Hero was the better swordsman, but the Villain had a huge speed advantage. It was still possible for the Great Hero to win the day, of course, but only by out-thinking his foe. That meant using the tricks, traps, and secret passages in the palace itself, which by agreement, the Villain was not allowed to make use of. The Villain nimbly leaped over obstructions, dodged barriers, sped past sluggish guards, avoided a cleaning robot, slid down banisters, and even swung on a chandelier. That was traditional, and the chandelier had been specially reinforced to allow for it, and then dashed for the door leading out into the garden. The Villain was within sight of its goal, a small boat floating in a nearby pond, when something snagged its ankle. It staggered and fell, the princess springing free with a hoot of triumph to splash down safely into the water. She promptly stole the Villain's boat while the Great Hero and his cohorts pounced upon the prone Villain.

“Yield, knave!” The Great Hero demanded, tossing his end of the tripwire aside, “The princess is rescued and you are undone! You shall be punished with the most feared punishment in the land!”

“No!” the Villain wailed, “Not that! Not the...”

“Yes, the...” The Great Hero paused, blinking his large eyes in puzzlement. “Drat. I can't remember what it was this time. Was it the stampede of furblits or muffin torture?”

“I think that you were going to throw me to the woggles,” the Villain said in a more normal tone of voice. “I'd rather break for lunch, anyway. Sanloss told me that he was going to make britta today.”

A vote was taken, and it was agreed that a big bowl of britta was even more attractive a proposition than throwing a Villain to the woggles. Lance pulled off the sinister hooded cloak and led the cheerful, chattering horde of young nobles to the kitchen for a snack.

Sanloss wasn't surprised in the least to see them coming, and had already set out a large bowl of britta and a stack of plates for them. Since Lance wasn't much interested in eating sections of marinated and crisp-fried giant caterpillar, a plate with a sandwich sat ready on a smaller table nearby. He made the local handsign that meant “thank you” to the cook and dug in, munching happily on was almost, but not quite, a good ham-on-rye.

Chair legs scraped on the tile floor as the Great Hero sat down beside him. This was Fanlen, the Princess's oldest son-in-residence, and the current pride of the House. Lance had been told that Fanlen was well-grown for his age, and very smart; he lacked his mother's oracular talents, but made up for it by having a real talent for diplomacy and statecraft that was was very promising. Such brilliant young minds were desperately needed these days, to keep the Galra from doing real damage to their world. Lance knew the boy as a bright, inquisitive lad with a deep love of learning about cultures other than his own, and he was starting to forget that Fanlen wasn't actually one of his own brothers. Right now, the prince's gold-threaded eyes were studying Lance's sandwich, which contained not a single ounce of insect protein.

“Lance, don't Earthlings eat insects?” he asked interestedly.

“Some do,” Lance replied with a grimace of distaste. “Mostly in tropical areas where the bugs get big, and where it's hard to raise anything better. Most of us prefer not to.”

“How big are the insects on Earth?” Fanlen asked.

Lance pinched thumb and forefinger nearly together. “Most of them are tiny. There are some spiders that are almost as big as my hand and some beetles that are heavier... oh, and one sort of stick insect that's longer than my forearm, but those are _really_ rare. There used to be bugs that were bigger than me, but that was hundreds of millions of years before Humans evolved. And the newts were also bigger than me, and then there were these big lizards, and then bigger things that weren't really lizards, and then big ugly mammals developed while the not-really-lizards were turning into birds—giant meteor strikes will do that—and then smaller mammals, and then us. It's been a long, strange, evolutionary trip.”

One of the other princes gave him a funny look. “Your planet is _weird.”_

“All planets are weird,” Lance said with a grin. “I've been to a few. There was the Balmera, which is all rocks and crystals, and the people there are all rocky, too. There was one that was underwater, with mermaids and a big eel. Take my advice and stay away from eels, okay? The one I visited first was a lot like mine, but the people there were little and had huge curly horns. Then there was one that had huge yellow grasslands full of dragons. That one was nice.”

“Dragons?” Fanlen said eagerly. “Real ones?”

“Yeah. My aunt has two of them that sort of keep her and my uncle as pets.” Lance took another bite of his sandwich and considered that odd arrangement for a moment. “They're as big as the garden shed, and sort of sand-and-pebble-colored, and they're spiky all over. They have six big blue eyes, big blue tongues, and they sniff you all over to say hello. If they sneeze and giggle, that means that they like you.”

“I like that,” Fanlen said with a smile. “Dragons that want to be friendly. Maybe I'll go there someday. Will you tell us another story about dragons tonight?”

Lance had fallen into the habit of telling the children bedtime stories very soon after his arrival, much as he had told stories to his own younger relatives back home. He enjoyed it as much as they did, having missed that simple task more than he had realized. “Nope. I've got something special lined up,” he said with a smile. “It's more for the younger ones this time, but you'll enjoy it, too.”

“Ooh!” one of the princesses squeaked happily, “what is it about?”

Lance leaned over, glanced around conspiratorially, and hissed, “It's a book... and it has _no pictures.”_

He refused to say anything more on that subject, and the mystery of it kept them occupied until the clock on the wall chimed the third hour. Time for their afternoon lessons, alas, and they filed out to attend before their tutors sent out search parties. Lance finished his lunch, then helped Sanloss around the kitchen until the head cook sent him up to the royal apartments with a bowl of what Lance preferred to think of as “space grapes”. They were really kumquat-sized versions of Earthly honeypot ants, but he still had a little difficulty coping with the local dietary preferences. Omorog was a world that was warmer and wetter than Earth, and given over mostly to swamps. Every inch of coastline around the wide, shallow oceans was swallowed up in vast weedy wetlands very much like the Everglades, leading inland to thickly-wooded freshwater marshes and swamps that would have made the average New Orleans bayou native feel right at home. The biomes from pole to pole were incredibly rich in plant and animal life, particularly insect life, and the multitudes of arthropod varieties were both enormous and fascinating. It was an insectivore's paradise, and that was probably why the planet was home to two native intelligent races instead of the usual one: the toadlike Omora and the silvery-skinned, blue-eyed, pseudo-mammalian Griona.

The two had evolved in two very different biomes, the Omora in the waters and the Griona up in the treetops; as a result, they had never preyed upon one another and had not ever competed for food or territory. Indeed, the two habitats couldn't exist without each other, and so the two races had felt it best to follow that trend. Griona were taller, faster, and more dexterous than their neighbors, but they were shorter-lived and less given to long and careful thought. The Omora were quite willing to consider problems, mediate disputes, and offer sound advice in return for a little physical assistance from their more active companions, and so the two races got along in admirable harmony. The fact that the Omora occasionally produced rare, useful talents such as oracular vision was a huge bonus that both races held completely secret from certain aliens.

The Galra, Lance had been told, had been utterly baffled by the peoples of Omorog right from the start, and hadn't really stopped being baffled by them since that time. They'd bulled their way into Omorog space in their usual overwhelming fashion, bellowing horrific threats and demands for their submission, only to find that they'd been expected, and worse, the locals were perfectly willing to cooperate. No matter what the first Governor had demanded, it was promptly placed before him without the slightest protest, on the condition that he didn't interfere with the people delivering it. Greedy and arrogant though the old fool had been, he hadn't been stupid; when one has found the Fountain of Wealth, it was said, it does not do to relieve one's self in it. The next Governor had caught on quickly enough, and the next, and the next, and so on up to the current one. Unfortunately, Loliqua had warned him, this Governor, one Idraz Khar'Ulep, was zealous, suspicious, and inclined to meddle where he shouldn't.

“He has heard some rumors and jumped to some conclusions, both far too close to the truth for comfort,” Loliqua had grumbled to him just the previous evening. “He is aware that I enjoy keeping exotic young persons for a little time, people who have gone on to become a real problem for his kind later. He is also a bit of a historian, and he has some guesses about just why our peoples seem to know what his want, practically before they want it. Should he find you here, or some modicum of fact that he could sell to that witch Haggar, we will all be in considerable trouble.”

Fortunately, any attempt by that fellow to insert spies—mechanical or otherwise—into the planet's houses of government were enormously unsuccessful, and it was very difficult to find any individual among the locals who could be reliably forced or bribed into doing the spying for him. Lance was easy enough to conceal among the Grionan complement of the Princess's servants with a little body paint, a pair of special contact lenses, and the right costume. His natural flair for acting completed the ruse with ease. That was just as well, since Idraz had visited the palace only two days after Lance had arrived, and he hadn't liked the look of the Galra at all. Idraz had been one of those sharp-featured, sharp-voiced, naturally cadaverous-looking creatures that tend to rise through the ranks despite the best efforts of anyone who could possibly get their hands on a grenade. He had narrow golden eyes, an ornate uniform so sharp and pristine that he wore it as though it were a weapon, and a cold and haughty expression that could have—and had—wilted a thornbush with a single glance. People tended to go quiet when he was around, and Lance could tell that the Princess hated him by the way she was icily polite whenever he showed up to pester her about something. That last time had been about her modifications to a certain section of the legal code, and Lance had simply stood by, disguised as a servant, and had watched while she convinced him that letting her decision rest was in his best interests; who knew what he would come to sneer at her about next time?

He found that out when he reached the throne room doors. One of the guards held up a warning hand to forestall his entry, and sure enough, he heard Loliqua's voice raised in complaint. “Really, Governor Idraz, I have asked you to call before you visit! You have interrupted an important meeting.”

“I come and go as I please,” replied a voice that could have stripped paint. “I need not warn anyone of my movements, and indeed I prefer not to—it makes it more difficult for those who have something to hide.”

Lance had slung his Villanous hooded cloak over one shoulder before coming up, intending to put it away after making his delivery. He set down the bowl on a nearby ornamental table, donned the cloak, and then slid into one corner behind a large potted azolea to listen. The guards remained watchful and silent; all of the household guard had been told who and what Lance was, and they approved.

“Governor Idraz, _everyone_ has something to hide, even if it is merely a stubborn stain upon one's clothing!” Loliqua snapped irritably. “Which particular drop of teela juice is fretting your sensibilities now? It cannot be that last shipment of office supplies, _that_ was inspected three times, or has your tailor quit in disgust again?”

Lance reflected that the meeting must have been really important; he'd never heard the Princess sounding so angry before.

“No,” the Governor said bluntly. “My informants tell me that you've added another exotic to your household again. I want a look at it.”

“What possible interest could you have in her pets?” another voice said sharply, “She buys them, coddles them for a while, and then sets them free when their kin show up to fetch them home. She's been doing that for the last two hundred and forty-five years! It's an expensive but harmless hobby, and I can think of far worse.”

“You are an idiot,” Idraz snapped. “Very nearly every one of the 'pets' she has turned loose have been identified as members of resistance groups and other subversive organizations. I have no reason to believe that this latest one is anything different. There have been sightings of Paladins in this Sector of space, and I would not put it past the Princess to harbor one!”

There was a chorus of surprised exclamations. _“Paladins?”_ someone yelped, “Like in those old legends? Nonsense! One might sooner find a Hoshinthra at a tea party. How would we even know what to look for? That big robot is said to have pulled its pilots from any old race.”

“ _I_ know what to look for,” the Governor said in a dangerous tone. “Most of them are from the same planet. One is currently being hunted by the Crown Prince, along with their Lions. One was seen on Sowirra. Another two were spotted on Boniro. I have been informed that the fifth was captured by a different pirate, and sold as a slave here. You have an eye for rarities, Princess. Summon your pet.”

Lance gulped. This could be bad...

“I have no idea of where it is at this time,” the Princess replied stiffly. “It has the run of the house and grounds, and it routinely helps the servants in their duties. It may take some time before it is found; have you patience enough to wait?”

Lance could hear the sneer in Idraz's voice. “Only for a little time, Princess. Do not make me wait longer than that. I have a large force of Sentries, and if I have cause to search this palace...”

Lance slipped out from behind the potted plant and then ran back down the hall toward the children's rooms. It was clear that the Governor wasn't going to be satisfied until he'd seen an exotic slave, so that was what he was going to see. One of the nice things about having a horde of younger relatives was that most of them were going to have to participate in school plays; the tailoring lessons he'd learned from his grandmother had made him very popular among his sibs and cousins in that way, and as a result, Lance knew a lot about costuming. His older sister Marcia had given him lessons in cosmetology in order to help her with her own homework as well, and he intended to use that knowledge to its fullest.

Several of Loliqua's children were interested in theater, and as a result, the children's suite had its own little auditorium and crate after crate of costumes, props, cosmetics, and prosthetics. He came to a breathless halt before the big full-length mirror in the dressing room there and took off the cloak, studying his own reflection. There was plenty to work with, even if he was in a hurry; he was tall, leggy, still coltish enough from his last growth spurt to obscure the lean muscularity of his frame. Classic—but _always_ fabulous—features, short brown hair, and he hadn't started shaving regularly yet. The only part of his looks or his clothing that he felt that he could object to right now was the collar around his neck, and right now, he didn't need to conceal it.

He smirked at his reflection. “Right. Idraz wants to see an exotic? Then an exotic is what he'll get.”

Oh, boy, would he ever. Lance took off his shirt and trousers and flung open the cabinet of body paints, selecting a dreadful lime green that he'd been avoiding all week. He installed that into the sprayer booth's socket, and when he exited the booth, he practically glowed in the dark. A few stencils and a few quick spritzes from another can gave him an eye-boggling pattern of dots and stripes in a horrifically bright shade of orange that would have caused eyestrain in a star-nosed mole, and then he dug into the crate of false features. Over his shoulders, face, arms, and lower legs, he added a few handfuls of gel-putty balls to give himself big translucent blue warts. An extra finger was added to each hand, along with a vestigial third eye in the center of his forehead. To complement that, he added contacts that turned his eyes a featureless black, and sweeping false eyelashes coated in hot-pink glitter. A huge bulbous nose was tacked on, long feathery eyebrows were applied, and a floor-sweeping wig and false mustache of gleaming purple hair topped it off. To complete the image of chromatic terror, he then donned a loose tank top striped in pink and black, and followed that up with a paisley kilt, sequined flip-flops, and rainbow toe-socks with pom-poms at the heels. He adopted a hunched posture, slung on a glittering multicolored feather-boa as a last-minute addition, and added a rather ludicrous hat that would have gotten him thrown out of every fashion house on Earth. With one last grin at the mirror, he shuffled back to the throne room, past a pair of guards that stared and had to stifle their laughter. Oddly enough, there actually was a race out here that looked just like he did now, although they were rarely seen outside their home orbits. Fanlen had shown him a whole book of galactic oddities, and this one had stuck in his mind. The Torlunes were indeed a member of the Empire, but the Galra tended to leave them alone.

“Y'wanted t'see me, y'r Highness?” he asked in a grumbling monotone as he pushed open the doors.

There was a whimper of anguish. Idraz hadn't come alone. Two armored guards had accompanied him, and one of them was already clutching at his eyes. The Princess, on the other hand, uttered a delighted giggle. “Tootchee, there you are! Do make yourself known to the Governor, dear, he's been anxious to meet you.”

Governor Idraz was staring in utter horror at Lance, and actually flinched when he swept the Galra a curtsy.

“Honored t'meetcha, y'r Honor,” Lance grumbled, waggling his mustache and fluttering his lashes coquettishly. “Y'r Honor wants me f'r sommat? Only I wuz help'n th' cook with makin' dinner. Shuckin' the ibblit beetles'n all. Poor ol' Sanloss, he ain't got 'nough finners for th' task...”

“The Governor was worried that you might be a Paladin, dear,” Loliqua said, casting an amused glance at the Galra, whose eyes were starting to water.

Lance vented a grotesque, nasal laugh. “Paladin? Me? Couldn't fly a Lion to save m'life, Mistress! C'n barely steer a float-crate, me. Whadda silly idea! Wouldn't be caught dead in that thing, anyway. Not colorful enough. M'reputation would be ruint! Catch me in a robo-beastie with only two colors, and not a fleck of glitter to be seen.”

“Yes, the images that were made public were a bit disappointing, weren't they?” Loliqua said critically. “Primary colors for the most part, and the paint was chipped around the edges. Dramatic, perhaps, but visually dull.”

“ _Dull,”_ Lance echoed in tones of deep disgust. “That's an insult where I come from, Mistress. Wouldn't be caught dead in armor, neither. I'd have t'shear m'flowin' locks t'fit, and that'd break m'hearts. And the controls! I'd lose m'poor mustache on t'first flight f'sure, getting it all tangled up on th'steerin' grips. Oh, m'poor nose, it hurts just thinkin' 'bout it!”

Lance was starting to get carried away now, and knew it, but the pained looks on the Galra's faces and their streaming, outraged eyes were too much to resist.

“And the hero-ing! All those emergencies, 'thout even an hour or two's warnin' so's to be prop'rly dressed for a good fight, all that dashin' around 'thout a care for one's colors, and the dirt! Gets ev'rywhere, y'know. Can't rescue a damsel in distress prop'rly iffen y'r kilt's comin' off. And those bayard things. _Tchah!_ Mine'd come up lookin' like a big comb, doubtless, though not sparkly 'nough, and there never was an evil overlord in t'universe that was ever styled t'death. Paladin! Damned silly idea.”

Loliqua giggled, as did her guests. “As you can see, Governor Idraz, this is no Paladin. I had heard that Torlunes made excellent Court Jesters, and so when Tootchee here came up for sale, I obtained him out of curiosity. He certainly brightens up the place, doesn't he? Not to worry, I will repatriate him in a little time; I fear that even the brightest of my gardens are unforgivably bland in his eyes, and injure his poor sensibilities. Torlunes are terribly sensitive to that sort of thing, you know.”

“'Tis a gracious and generous Mistress you are, Mistress,” Lance said sweetly, “I know that y'really did try. Y'r chilluns'll be sad t'see me go, and I'll be sad t'leave 'em, but me poor hearts cry out for the polychrome fields of home.”

“Indeed,” Loliqua sighed, “such is the price of adventure. Off with you now, dear, you've shown my colleague here the error of his assumptions... oh, dear, and you've given him eyestrain as well. Do continue to help the cook with his preparations, there's a good fellow.”

“Yes, Mistress. Sorry 'bout th'eyes, y'r Honor, see y'all later.”

Lance shuffled out, closed the door politely behind him, nodded to the snickering guards, and then ambled unhurriedly back toward the prop room. For caution's sake, he waited by a window overlooking the rooftop landing pad until he saw the Governor's aircar leave, and then went to clean himself up. One nice thing about alien stage makeup—it came off much more easily than Earthly greasepaint. Having divested himself of his costume, he made his way back to Loliqua's private suite, where he found her nibbling the space grapes and scanning the newsnets. “There you are,” she said in an amused murmur. “That was an excellent performance, although you did add a couple of details that were not public knowledge.”

“Yeah, I know, but I couldn't help it.” Lance laughed. “Did you see his face? I didn't know that Galra were such fashion prudes.”

Loliqua hummed quellingly. “They aren't, although most military uniforms do trend toward the sober and drab. Galra eyes are very sensitive, dear. Having evolved from a nocturnal predator, they have excellent color vision in low-light situations. Bright light pains them, I know that, and they see colors that simply do not exist to our eyes. The Torlunes are perhaps the only truly pacifistic people that have ever successfully held off the Galra, simply by dressing their best. The poor things purely can't stand to look at them. Hopefully, the showing that you gave those three has injured their sensibilities enough to make them forget two things: Nearly nothing is known about how the Lions are controlled, and only a very few people are aware of the fact that the Paladins' weapons shape themselves to fit the hands of their bearers.”

“Hmm. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll wreck the aircar flying home,” Lance said with a frown. “Oh, well. We'll think of something. Have you Seen anything coming?”

Loliqua sat back in her seat, rubbing thoughtfully at her belly. “Nothing clear. Your friends are coming, never fear, although they must be cautious. As Idraz mentioned, they have been spotted frequently in this Sector, and the local officials are on the alert as a result. They won't arrive for some days yet, I'm afraid. Events closer in... well, frankly, they're all in a muddle. Something fairly important is going to happen, but it's obscured from my Sight, although I have had one clue toward a proper resolution.”

“Oh?” Lance asked.

She nodded. “I must ask you to go down to my private garden and ask Larsh and Yonset to pot me up a pair of mature mathri bushes in full bloom, to be placed in the lesser audience chamber no later than tomorrow morning. It's very important, although I'm not sure why.”

Lance's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Mathri bushes. Those are the ones that have to stay outside, right? I was helping Yonset with the pruning yesterday, and she told me that if they got jostled, they poofed pollen all over everything. Something about a symbiotic arrangement with swamp twogs.”

“Yes, the twogs feed on the tubers that grow on the roots, and in return carry the pollen to other bushes.” Loliqua humphed thoughtfully. “I've always rather liked the fragrance. Hard on the carpets, though, and it can be an allergen. We shall have to reassure the servants that the room will not be a part of your obstacle courses while the bushes are in there; those adventure games you've taught my children are a bit rough.”

Lance grinned unrepentantly. “Fun, though, and we're careful not to knock the furniture over. Do you mind?”

Loliqua laughed cheerfully. “Mind? Never. It is good for a young person to play at being Heroes and Villains, and treasure hunts are treasures in and of themselves. A bit of fantasy is necessary for teaching flexibility of thought, and the children do love it so. It's so rare, Lance, to have a genuine Hero to learn such things from. Fanlen's already spoken to me about formally adopting you as his brother.”

“He's a good kid.” Lance said, warmed by that.

“He is the hope of my House.” Loliqua sighed and flipped through a few more articles, frowning at some of the grimmer headlines. “The Empire has been increasing its pressure upon its subject peoples more and more over the past several centuries as its borders expand. It is far larger than any other such sphere of influence known to history, and it requires a truly astounding amount of resources to maintain. Their habit of destroying any people who will not submit only exacerbates the problem, for one cannot tax an extinct race. We need gifted statesmen such as Fanlen is beginning to be, statesmen who will be able to mitigate Galran greed and maintain a workable peace. For if the subject races are pressed too hard, they will revolt, and that can only lead to disaster.”

“I know,” Lance said. “Me and the guys are working on it, but handling the fallout isn't going to be easy. We're probably going to spend our entire lives trying to get it under control. We're only five people and some friends right now. If the whole of the Altean race couldn't do it back when the Empire was just getting started--”

“They were not you,” Loliqua said gently. “I do not know much about the Alteans. Historical records of that people are rare, and most of them are tagged as restricted data in the Imperial Archives. Not for the eyes of mere subject peoples. I am aware from the records of other races that they were great diplomats and practitioners of aetheric sciences. I am also aware that they resorted to some less than legal tactics to get what they wanted in difficult situations. I do know that they were involved in the disputes between the Galra and their neighbors at that time, and that their hands were not clean in the midst of that chaos. Voltron itself is apolitical—a mere tool. Its pilots, however, were forced to follow the orders of those who had agendas of their own. You and yours answer to no government, and no higher power but your own principles. The previous teams would envy you deeply for that alone.”

“I know,” Lance said glumly. “Lizenne told us about that, and Allura and Coran had a few bombshells to drop, too. I like them, and I'd like to help free the last Altean colony, but Haggar's Altean too, and that kind of makes things difficult.”

“Is she?” Loliqua asked, surprised. “My goodness. I wonder if... well, I'd have to meditate on that. Just goes to show that no race has a monopoly on evil. It would certainly explain a few things. In fact, I--”

She stopped, and went very still. Just for a moment, Lance saw her eyes take on a new depth, and he realized that the gold threading looked exactly like the roads of  _Tahe Moq_ that he and the others had traveled in search of Shiro, long months ago. The Princess blinked and let out a surprised breath. “Well! I have Seen, and so I will Act. Lance, I have had a Vision. Please go and ask the gardeners to send up those mathis bushes, and then find Tollins and send him to me at once. I must meditate, all right, and tonight, out at the Shrine of Leodram. Tonight, and no other night, and alone.”

“The where? Alone?” Lance said, experiencing the rattled sensation of one who has just seen a genuine Seer in action. “Are you sure that it's safe?”

“The most sacred place in this hemisphere, and secretly,” Loliqua said briskly, heaving her warty bulk up out of her chair. “And alone. As for safe, well, there is no guarantee of that, but the risk is reasonable. Now go. Run, boy, this is important!”

Lance ran.

 

He was still worrying about her a little bit when bedtime rolled around, but he'd made the kids a promise and was required to deliver. In truth, he'd been working on this project for the last couple of days. Three years ago (three years? Holy crow, where did the time go?), one of his uncles had been digging around in the attic and had unearthed a wonderful book. It had no pictures, but it did have a lot of really fun words, noises, and a deal that the reader could not refuse. Every single one of Lance's younger siblings and cousins had fallen in love with the thing, and had made him read it to them every single night, sometimes two or three times if they felt that they could get away with it. As a result, Lance had wound up memorizing the thing, every grunt, hoot, and squeak, and he still could recite the whole thing from memory in his sleep. He could ham it up in his sleep, too, and had done so in the past, which had annoyed his housemates somewhat. Fortunately, the palace walls were all soundproof, so the next several generations of people who would read his gift wouldn't annoy anyone who didn't want to be annoyed. One of the palace's many workshops had a multifabricator, and he'd spent an interesting three days with Tollins designing and translating a copy of  _The Book With No Pictures_ for the Princess's offspring... and being glad that Earthly copyright law didn't extend out into the reaches of space yet.

And so it was that he settled down into a chair in their bedroom, a large airy chamber that had been made up to look like a mossy grotto, with a plain white hardcopy volume in his hands. Dozens of dark eyes gleamed eagerly in the shadows cast by the firefly lanterns hung here and there around the room, and Lance reflected that his own sibs and cousins would have given anything for a room like this. Not that there hadn't been fights over who got the top bunk at any given time, especially if some other branch of the family was visiting, but theme rooms were special. His family was fairly well-off, but not rich enough to remodel the sleeping quarters into something like this. Still, kids were kids the universe over, and there were excited murmurs as he opened the book with a flourish, displaying a nearly blank page.

“This,” he began in a voice that carried well into the hush, “is the Book With _No Pictures...”_

They loved it, as he knew they would. These were royal children, after all, and their education ran heavily to official subjects. The vast majority of them were destined for positions of great responsibility and care, and even the stories he read to them at night always held moral puzzles or lessons on cause and effect and the huge importance of thinking a plan through before implementing it. This bit of harmless silliness, the way it forced the instructor to do and say ridiculous things, this was a rare treat for them, and they hooted, gurgled, and squeaked right along with him, howling with laughter the whole time. He was required to give two encore performances and was working on a third before he noticed that they were falling asleep. The nice thing about cold-blooded metabolisms, he thought as he slipped the Book into a slot on a handy shelf between Fanlen's copy of _Gronthurp's Galactic Oddities_ and Volume I of his sister's _Encyclopedia of Arthropods_ was that excitement tired them out rather than revved them up. His own cousins would've been bouncing off of the walls right now.

Before he could leave, a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist, and he found that Fanlen had come up behind him, looking for a hug. Omora males tended to be much smaller than the ladies, due to the fact that their people spawned huge masses of eggs; the women had to be big and wide to accommodate the load. Fanlen was tall for an Omora boy, although he was only an inch or two above Pidge's height.

“Hey, buddy, can't sleep?” Lance asked.

“That was a really good book,” Fanlen said sleepily. “Mom says that you're going to be leaving soon.”

Lance sighed and rested a hand on Fanlen's shoulder. “Yeah. I've got things to do that nobody else can do, and they're too important to abandon. I've had a good time here, Fanlen, and I like you guys a lot.”

Fanlen sniffled. “We're going to miss you. Mom's had a bunch of heroes before, but you're the best. You will visit again, won't you? Do heroes get vacations?”

“I don't know.” Lance stared around at the room's occupants. Most of the kids were sound asleep now, but a few of the older ones were still awake, watching and listening. “We're up against the biggest villains in the universe, and they don't take much time off. Muffin torture isn't going to do it, I'm afraid. I'll try to come back, and your Mom wants to talk to my Aunt. I'd like to introduce you to the rest of the guys. I think that you'd like them.”

“Mom says that some of them are Galra.” Fanlen gave him a suspicious look. “Aren't they the bad guys?”

Lance thought about that, smirking at his own early experiences. “Two years ago, I would have said yes. The Emperor's bad, Haggar's worse, and the military is full of pushy bullies. When that's all you see of a people, that's the only way you can think of them. Then we met Lizenne and Modhri, and Keith's Mom, and the Blade of Marmora, and Sarell and Kolost and their cubs, and we found out that they aren't all that different from us. Hey, if your Mom's going to talk to my Aunt, then you can ask if she's allowed to bring Tilla and Soluk along. You'd like the dragons. They love kids, and know some great games.”

“I want to meet them,” Fanlen said, and yawned. “I've always wanted to see a real dragon.”

Lance patted the sleepy prince's back and steered him gently toward his personal mossy hollow. “You will, I promise. If you're lucky, they might even let you ride on their backs. Hunk says that they can run really fast, and that it's almost like riding in the Lions.”

Fanlen smiled, settling himself down on his bed. “I've always wanted to ride a Lion, too. Is it fun?”

Lance tucked him in, feeling the fluid blue presence of the Lion-bond in his own heart. “It can be the best thing in the world.”

“I want to be a Hero too,” Fanlen mumbled. “Mom says that I'll make a great Prince, and maybe even a King if I do it really well. Heroes have more fun.”

“Not always,” Lance warned him. “Most of the time it can be boring, or scary, and it's an awful lot of hard work. You have to run and hide a lot, and there's a real chance of getting hurt or killed. You don't even get paid regularly, and there are a lot of disappointments as well. Besides, you're going to be a hero anyway.”

“Am I?” Huge dark eyes gleamed hopefully up at Lance. “Really?”

Lance nodded. “I only get to be a hero every so often, just when I'm fighting the enemy or on a mission or stealing something that the bad guys don't want me to have. You're going to be a hero every day, protecting your people from the Empire's bad habits. It's not as exciting, but you'll get a lot more useful stuff done than I will. The most important thing about being a hero is facing all the scary stuff and hard stuff and boring stuff and dealing with it, no matter how much you want to run away or do something else. 'Night, Fanlen.”

“'Night.” Fanlen sighed, and dropped off to sleep.

Lance stayed sitting for a long moment beside his friend. His own family was hundreds, perhaps thousands, or even millions of lightyears away. He missed them constantly, and the loss of them was like a pool of icy water at the bottom of his mind. His stay in Loliqua's palace had eased that a little, and he would indeed miss her brood very much when it was time to go. It had been almost—not quite, but almost—like being back home. He missed his second family as well, of course. Pidge's absence had left a hole in the world for a solid six months, he'd come to rely on Allura's force of will more than he cared to admit, Hunk was the best hug in outer space, and he even missed bickering with Keith. Shiro... that was another hole in the world that still hurt to think about, and the protective presence of Zaianne and Lizenne had become very important to him. And Modhri's air of calm reassurance, and the dragons, and Kolanth, and even Allura's mice. Oh, god, the mice. If even one of them had hitched a ride with them on that trip to the _Osric's Quandary,_ they might never have wound up in the brig. Or at least not being sold. Or something.

Lance shook his head and slipped out of the room. One of the night guards, wearing the special heated armor designed to keep him active and alert even in the chill of the Autumn evenings, nodded politely to him. “All settled in?”

“Yup,” Lance replied quietly. “They're good kids. Is the Princess back yet?”

The guard gestured a negative. “Not yet, and I don't expect her back until at least midday tomorrow. She doesn't rush off like that lightly, much less without any attendants, and will want to make sure that she gets every detail that she can out of whatever Vision's been troubling her. Plus, it's cold out in the swamps this time of year.”

Lance frowned in concern. “Will she be all right?”

“She'll be fine. The Princess is a well-grown woman and hardy with it, and we can freeze solid for months at a time and thaw out again with no harm done.” The Guard patted his shoulder reassuringly. “One little advantage we have over mammals, eh? Go to bed, Lance. Pacing the halls all night isn't going to do anybody any good.”

“Right,” Lance admitted. “Good night.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Lance reads the kids is The Book With No Pictures by BJ Novak. You can find a reading of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DV6FouCG_o  
> Sadly, it's not the production Lance would have made of it, and I would give a great deal to see Jeremy Shada read that book aloud, but it gives everyone an idea of why I feel Lance would have that book memorized for his family. ^_^


	24. No Longer A Game

 

 

Chapter 24: No Longer A Game

 

The Princess returned the following afternoon in a bustling hurry, although a triumphant one to judge by the way she was carrying a small carved wooden case. That item she placed in a wall safe in her own private quarters before cleaning herself up and rushing to attend to the duties of the day. She was quite late for a number of council meetings and was full of apologies, and was instantly forgiven by her colleagues as a matter of course. Lance, who had helped to entertain those very high officials while they'd waited for her to return, couldn't help but envy this world's remarkable governmental system. Omora and Griona alike believed that in order to hold rank, you had to be good at it; the aristocracy and the meritocracy were the same thing here, with social status corresponding with talent and achievement. Loliqua's mother had been a quorsh farmer, and had been barely literate, while one of the gardeners was the offspring of a Duke. Extra leeway was afforded to the rare aetheric practitioners, particularly those skilled in the Art. Lance knew what would have happened back home on Earth if the Secretary of State had skipped a morning session because of a wild urge to stare into a crystal ball—the newsnets would've freaked out, his enemies would have used it to discredit him, and he would've been out of a job in less than a year. Here, the VIP's just shrugged and got on with business. Lance wondered vaguely what would happen when Earthly governments figured out that magic not only existed, but could turn any one of them into a small pile of charcoal if they annoyed a practitioner enough.

Or do other things, he thought as he helped the cook prepare that night's dinner.

In truth, one bit of magic he'd seen still bothered him. That day more than half a year ago, when Kolanth had staggered into their orbit screaming for help, half-delirious with pain, blood loss, and the hexes that had been set into him. Lance had been flying that day, mentally, ever since that morning; first through the game of Blind Hunt that they'd been playing with Zaianne, and then joining up into Voltron to keep the enemy from capturing or killing the fugitive Blade. He'd helped hold the wounded man down while the ladies had saved his life and freedom, he'd seen, somehow, the damage that had been done to that long, lean body. Lance had felt that he could have done something about that, but hadn't known how to do... whatever it might have been. He could feel his Lion watching him closely, as she did whenever he thought about that event. Being too sick to do more than eat, sleep, and regain strength for six months had kind of gotten in the way of finding out anything more. Lizenne had said that both he and Keith were nearing a breakthrough of some sort, but she wasn't sure what.

He could admit to himself that he envied Pidge, Allura, and Hunk more than a little for their sudden wild talents. It was awesome, how Allura could absorb bad magic and put it to better use, and Pidge could play alien technology as though it were a piano. Hunk could build anything out of anything, even if it was only to create a device that could produce hot buttered popcorn on demand, or steal a starbase. He wondered how Clarence was doing for a moment, and then scowled at the pile of roots that he was peeling, wondering who would manifest a new trick next, him or Keith.

“Nick yourself?” Sanloss asked, taking the platter of peeled roots and dumping them into the big slicer's hopper.

“No, I'm fine,” Lance told the amiable old Griona. “Just thinking about learning a new skill.”

“Always a worthy thing,” Sanloss said absently, positioning a bowl under the output chute. “Is it a difficult one?”

Lance shrugged. “I don't know. Haven't tried it yet. I don't even know what it is yet, only that it's coming. It's sort of aetheric.”

Sanloss hummed. “It can happen like that. Most of the Talented manifest their gifts while still small. This is good, because their power is still small, and is less liable to hurt anyone. You, you're almost an adult, yes?”

“Yeah. It doesn't really feel that way sometimes, though.”

“Life is a learning experience. In some ways, even the Princess is still a little girl.” Sanloss smiled fondly, smoothing back his own hair, which was fading with age to green in spots. “Late bloomers must take care, for their manifestations tend to be violent, uncontrolled, and wasteful of strength. If you feel it beginning to bloom within you, hold it tight and do not let go! It will be difficult, but not so difficult as recovering from what it will do to you if you do not control it. Far better that the tree cracks, rather than the whole forest should catch on fire.”

Lance gave Sanloss a hard look. “You sound like you've had some experience with that.”

Sanloss nodded and pointed at the far wall of the kitchen, where one large section seemed to be a lot newer than the rest, and the old bricks surrounding the patch were darkly-stained. “One of the Princess's cousins. He found out that he was a fire-starter the hard way. He'd had a bad day and the oven wouldn't start, and before he knew it— _VOOSH!_ We lost the whole range, much of the wall, six glibbet pies, and a fair amount of his skin. He recovered and is currently a valued member of the metalcasting industry, but it was a lesson hard-learned.”

“Ouch.” Lance finished off his root and selected another. There was some sort of banquet being held tonight with a lot of important guests attending, although Sanloss and his staff were handling the extra work with the smooth ease of true professionals. “I don't think that I'm going to be one of those, though. Fire's not my thing. Maybe I'll--”

“Lance!” a familiar voice rang across the busy clatter of the kitchen helpers, and Fanlen scampered up, panting with excitement. “Lance! Mom says that I'm to attend the council meeting in an hour, so that I'll see real government in action. It's my first, and everybody who is anybody is going to be there!”

“Hey, that's great!” Lance said, putting down the peeler and shaking the young prince's hand. “Are you going to do any of the talking? Just imagine them all in their underwear if you start to get nervous.”

Fanlen giggled, but sobered. “Governor Idraz is going to be there, too. Can you put on your Griona costume and pose as one of the attendants? Ianton's not feeling well today, so the upstairs staff is a little shorthanded and... well... I want a real hero in there. I don't like it when Idraz comes here, Lance. It's like he's looking for an excuse to do something awful.”

Lance frowned and glanced over at Sanloss, who shrugged and motioned a dismissal at him. “Sure. I don't like that guy, either. I won't be able to do much if something goes wrong—that's what the guards are for, after all, but I can be there for you. Just go and borrow Ianton's uniform for me, we're pretty much the same size, and I'll start putting on the makeup.”

“Good,” Fanlen said, relaxing somewhat. “Let's go.”

 

Slightly less than an hour later, Lance was not particularly surprised to see that the meeting was being held in the lesser audience chamber, the two mature mathis bushes in full bloom situated near the door, but not so near that someone might bump into them by accident. Lance figured that Yonset must've been grinning like a cat when it came time to pot those things up—she loved bringing out the big digging machines, and seemed to have chosen the two largest bushes on the palace grounds. The big red camellia-like blooms did smell nice, at least, a little like lemon blossoms. Not that he had much time to appreciate them; he and the other attendants were too busy setting out chairs, desks, and trays of snacks in a semicircle facing the throne to bother much with the floral arrangements.

Precisely on time, the council members started arriving. Mostly Omora and Griona, of course, but there were at least two dozen other races being represented here today, possibly emissaries from various allies and trading partners. The Princess arrived last in a formal robe and diadem of Audience, Fanlen very stiff and formal at her side. She waved him toward a smaller, plainer chair to her right and settled herself into the throne, and Tollins stepped forward with a formal hardcopy scroll to do the roll call. Over fifty names were called and acknowledged, but the last one went unanswered. Idraz was late, and apparently not for the first time.

“Not again,” someone sighed in exasperation. “Last time he did this, we were kept waiting for a half-hour before he showed up.”

“Yes, and contributed nothing of worth, and left well before we'd finished,” another potentate grumbled. “I move that we begin without him, and motion further that he be required to recognize fifteen minutes of silence on his part starting from the moment his rump touches the seat.”

There were chuckles around the room, and Lance was hard-put to suppress a smirk. It was a point of pride among the staff that they remain expressionless and silent during session, unless called upon to comment. Loliqua, alas, could not allow it. “We mustn't, unfortunately. It would give him an opportunity to accuse us of collusion, and an excuse to go through our files. Not that he'd find anything, of course, but it would put everybody's offices in an uproar for a week. Have some sympathy for the staff, my friends, and be patient.”

There were groans and rustles among the officials, but they busied themselves with paperwork and quiet conversation. Lance and the others could only stand quietly and wait, a delay that grated across his nerves. It took about fifteen to twenty minutes by Lance's estimation for Idraz to show up, and he wasn't shy about making a dramatic entrance. The chamber doors were thrust violently open, startling the council members, and Idraz marched in at the head of a squad of armed and armored guards with a triumphant look on his narrow features. There were exclamations of shock and outrage from the council members, and the palace guards tensed; while Idraz habitually trailed around an armed escort, it was not usual to see them come in with guns drawn as they did now.

“Governor Idraz!” the Princess snapped, “You are most impolite! We do not mind indulging your tardiness, but have your men put up those blasters. There is a room down the hall where they may be comfortable. Kindly settle down so that we may begin the session.”

“There will be no session,” Idraz replied coldly. “You are guilty of treason against the Empire, and are therefore in no way qualified to hold your position as princess. You will submit at once for interrogation and deportation to the Calomyx labor camp. Just how many of your colleagues here are guilty of conspiring with you will be determined shortly.”

“Treason, Governor?” Loliqua said, swelling up with fury, “That is not a small accusation, considering that I've been keeping a considerable flow of wealth going into the Empire's coffers for nearly three hundred years. By what right do you accuse me of treason?”

He sneered at her. “By the rights vested in me as the Emperor's appointed Governor, and by the Emperor's own order. You have been harboring a Paladin in this palace, and you will produce it or every last person in this room will be executed or sent to Calomyx.”

“A Paladin? I have no Paladins. There are only five of them, you know, and the odds of one showing up here are remote at best. I do not even have that Torlune anymore, having sent him home on the insistence of my interior decorator.” Loliqua growled. “I have on staff an evenly mixed roster of Omora and Griona, as is right and traditional for this establishment.”

Idraz shook his head slowly, a cruel smile on his face. “You are lying. I have sources of information that you do not, Princess. No Torlunes have come to this world, free or otherwise, in the past eleven years. Your favorite supplier was questioned, and while he did bring you an exotic within the past fifteen days, it was not a Torlune, but an upright bipedal mammal of unknown origins. Furthermore, I have recently received a notification from Prince Lotor stating that a Juskoran pirate—the former captain of the _Osric's Quandary,_ no less—sold that creature to your procurer for a very handsome sum, and that the slave was guaranteed as being the blue Paladin. You cannot have sent that one home, for even the Prince doesn't know where its home planet is. If he did, he would have had it destroyed it by now as punishment for their actions.”

Lance gasped, suddenly aware that Earth was in real trouble... assuming it was still there. Fortunately, his reaction went unnoticed, as Loliqua was rising to her full and not inconsiderable height. “I would very much like to see proof of your accusations, Idraz. The testimony of a pirate is suspect at best, even a captain's. Galra tend to be rough when interrogating their prisoners, and confessions obtained under duress are worthless. Even if you did have proof, you are in direct violation of the Treaty. This is a Class Two Allied world, and we have rights under your own body of law. You are prohibited from disrupting the smooth function of the local governments in this fashion. Clause Seven, subsections two through four, state clearly that the ruling individuals will not be micromanaged, and that includes the selection of servants, pets, household staff, furniture, and houseplants. Consider yourself ejected from this council meeting, Idraz, and be sure that I will file a complaint with the Office of Oversight.”

Idraz had stopped smiling, and his already narrow eyes were slits of gold. “That makes no difference this far out from the Center, and the Emperor has issued very clear orders where the Paladins are concerned. You will produce the creature now, or--”

“You will leave!” a new voice cut him off, and Lance swallowed hard as Fanlen leaped up to face the foe, his showy but useless ceremonial sword drawn. “I have made a study of the Treaty, and the Princess is correct. You have no right to dictate who lives here, nor do you have the right to remove her from office without a proper investigation. You will receive an Official Censure for this, Governor Idraz, and will perhaps be replaced. Besides, it's the Lions that the Emperor wants, not the pilots, and we don't have one of those.”

“My goodness, is this the hope of the nation?” Idraz barked a sharp laugh. “Little idiot, the pilot may be used to find the Lion. Control the Paladin, control the Lion. Simple enough for even an amphibian to understand. As I was saying, _princess,_ produce the creature now, or--” he motioned to one of his guards, who promptly shot Fanlen in the chest, “--in ten minutes I will have someone else shot.”

Fanlen cried out and fell, clutching at the smoking hole in his torso. Lance was moving before he realized it, but he wasn't alone. Cries and shouts rang out from every throat, and the palace guards closed in. Omora and Griona were largely pacifistic, but the Governor had overstepped the bounds, and Fanlen was the very popular son of a very popular woman. Even the offworld delegates had taken offense, and several of them were armed. Lance took no notice of the fight that was breaking out all around him and rushed to Fanlen's side, tearing what was left of the formal silk shirt away from the wound. The Galra used energy weapons, which had the advantage of cauterizing what they hit, but the damage was severe. There was a hole in Fanlen's upper right torso that was almost as big as Lance's hand. It had missed the heart, thankfully, but other things had been damaged, and the boy was dying.

“Lance,” Fanlen whimpered, the great dark eyes dulling, “am I a hero?”

Lance didn't answer. He was terrified of losing his friend, and helpless to do anything about it. He put one hand over the wound in an instinctive gesture, as though he could wipe the hurt away, or make it not exist anymore by covering it up. Something inside his mind went _click_ at that point, and he felt the Lion's awareness watching him very closely now. Lance went very still as something new formed in his mind, and suddenly he could see it. Even as he had seen the damage done inside Kolanth's body all those months ago, he could see the damage in Fanlen's now. How deep the bolt had penetrated, which organs and tissues had been damaged, and more to the point, how to repair them. He just didn't have the power. Heart and mind ablaze, he faced his Lion. _“Help me!”_

It was like a key turning in a lock. Time slowed nearly to a halt. The floodgates opened, and his own fluid spirit flooded out into Fanlen's body, cooling the burnt places and stimulating growth, reconnecting what had been severed and washing away what had been destroyed. Fanlen gasped as the searing pain in his body eased, and then was gone, along with the wound. Lance shuddered, removing his hand from the boy's chest to see a faint round scar in the pale, slightly pebbly skin, and smiled despite the chills that racked him now. He was cold, so cold, and exhausted beyond anything he had ever known. Shivering, he slumped helplessly onto the carpet, unconscious.

 

Lance came awake slowly. He was lying on something soft, and wrapped in a blanket that radiated a very welcome heat. A cup was being held to his lips, and the trickle of sweet liquid in his mouth was warm. Suddenly parched, he gulped down the contents of that cup, and the next, and finished off a third before someone slipped a bit of something savory between his teeth. His belly roared like a lion for more, and for the next several minutes, nothing mattered other than getting as much food into himself as he could manage. He knew what that was, when he could think of anything at all; he'd felt it before, after the mind trip they'd taken to search for Shiro. Serious magic had been done, and by him. Now what...?

“Fanlen!” Lance said, scrubbing at his blurry eyes. “Where's Fanlen? Is he okay?”

“I'm right here,” someone said at his elbow, “I'm fine!”

Lance turned to see the young prince, apparently whole and healthy, holding a nearly-empty plate of small sandwiches. Lance lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Fanlen, adroitly moving the plate first so as not to spill the food. The first edge of his hunger had been dulled, but those sandwiches were still very important right now. Not as important as Fanlen was, however. “I thought I'd lost you, kid,” he said shakily. “You're really all right?”

“He is indeed, with only a scar that will fade in time to show for this day's excitement,” the dulcet voice of the Princess stated. “You've also managed to clear up a vulnerability to sprod fungus infections that he's had since he was a tadling. Congratulations, Lance, you're a Healer.”

Mystified, Lance stared up at the six-foot toad that sat in a chair next to his bed. He was in the palace infirmary, from the look of things, and the Princess had a bandage wrapped around one arm. “I... what? Were you hurt, too?”

Loliqua's hand brushed the bandage dismissively. “A nick, only. I've had worse from helping my mother prune the quolsh vines. My son, on the other hand, would have died if you had not broken through when you did. As I have just said, you are a Healer, quite a potent one, and you saved his life. Even had my best surgeon gotten to work upon him immediately, he would not have survived, poor boy.”

“Oh.” Lance let go of Fanlen and stared at the boy's upper right torso, where he knew a fatal wound had been. He could _feel_ where it had been, and was no longer. It felt rather strange, and he covered his unease by grabbing another sandwich. “Lucky us, huh?” he asked around a mouthful of something delicious.

“Very.” Loliqua sighed and settled herself more comfortably on her chair. “You could very easily have died as well. As it is, you've been unconscious for hours, and Doctor Lumos had to pump you full of restorative solution to keep your system from crashing. A simple remedy, for all that it was desperately needed. Be very glad that you are not an Empathetic Healer—those mend others by taking their hurts onto their own bodies. That can become quite gruesome at times, and the practitioners rarely live long lives. I will contact an old friend of mine, a Healer whose talents are much the same as yours. You will learn the techniques that he will teach you, and you will study them well!” She waggled an admonishing finger at him. “Healers who are strong enough to revive the mortally wounded all in one go are very rare, very rare indeed, and mustn't be wasted.”

“Okay,” Lance said, taking a sip of the tea that Fanlen handed him. He was still weary, although the icy chill that he'd suffered seemed to be gone now. He lay back against the cushions that Fanlen had propped him up with, and smiled at his companions. “It's funny. I knew that I was going to manifest something, but I wasn't expecting this. Hah. I even guessed that I might become irresistible to alien noblewomen. Wishful thinking, maybe.”

Loliqua giggled. “Hardly. Lance, had you been born an Omora, that talent would have guaranteed you a permanent breeding advantage. Full-blown Healers are highly honored in our society. Alas, you are not of our kind, and thus I will not be available to you come spring.”

Lance blushed hotly, and then began to laugh. It felt wonderful. “Thanks, I needed that. What happened after that creep of a Galra shot Fanlen? I was kind of busy. Oh, crud, where's the Governor?”

Fanlen patted his arm. “It's okay, he won't be making trouble for a while. He's in the high-security section of the infirmary right now, along with his guards, and _everybody_ filed an Official Censure against him. He'll probably be removed from his office and posted somewhere else.”

Loliqua humphed. “As a mid-level clerk, I should hope. He was not expecting us to fight back, or to put up any real resistance to his perceived authority. He had no idea of how strong or skilled the household guards are, and he knew nothing of local botany, or he would have been most reluctant to conduct a violence around those mathis bushes. Galra are violently allergic to mathis pollen, Lance, and when a couple of the delegates disturbed the bushes, they filled the air with their effluence in very short order. Idraz and his guards were flat on the floor and in severe respiratory distress in moments. Of your own exploits, I saw only a brief flash of blue light, like the lightning one sometimes sees in a blizzard, and then my son was not dead. There was frost on the carpet around you, however, which suggests an elemental aspect to your gift.”

“Maybe,” Lance admitted. “I had to ask my Lion for help. Blue's at her best underwater, and she's got a freeze ray that's something special.”

Loliqua sat back, her eyes distant as she considered that information. “How I wish that I could see the blueprints for the Lions. Many of their functions are a total mystery, even to their own operators. There is a red Lion... hmm. I cannot say. Ah. What I can say is that your team will arrive here in about three, perhaps three and a half days, and will be quite anxious to retrieve you and then vanish in a twinkling. I personally would prefer to talk with them for a little time before they whisk you away. How best would you like to greet them?”

Lance stared at the ceiling, his feelings decidedly mixed. He glanced over at Loliqua, whose vast belly and pudgy arms reminded him of something that he'd loved as a kid. A sly smile spread itself across his face. “I know just the thing...”

 

Allura was practically dancing with impatience, so much so that Zaianne forbade her from the pilot's dais. Omorog was an Imperial Ally and had a significant Galra presence, complete with its own garrison based on one of the moons; the two big support ships and three Lions might have been well able to take the enemy on, but it would result in a huge screaming mess that would probably summon Lotor's fleet here in a trice and nobody wanted that. Not without the full complement of Paladins on board, at which time they would be ready for him. As a result, the team was required to move very carefully, and Zaianne was rather better at doing that than the Princess was.

They had already pinpointed Lance's location; that had been easy enough, with Hunk, Allura, and Keith seeking him through the Lion-bond. Their destination was an isolated, rather gloomy old fortress-like building situated in the middle of a swamp, a damp gray pile of stone that looked more like a mushroom-encrusted tree stump than anything else. There were several delays before they could get there, unfortunately. Getting there undetected was a major one; getting properly dressed for the rescue mission was another. The real problem was that their armor and bayards were still in the _Osric's Quandary,_ wherever the heck that was, and while the Castle did store several sets of spare armor, none of it fit them. The previous Paladins had been too tall, or too short, or... weird. Some of them hadn't been bipedal. One of the previous yellow Paladins looked to have evolved from squid. Making a fresh set of armor would have taken too long, and there was no way to make another set of bayards at all. The Castle held several suits of plain space armor, as did the _Chimera,_ but none of those had been made with Humans in mind. Galra were much taller and longer-limbed, and while Alteans were more or less the same height as the average Human, they tended to be narrower; as Lance had commented earlier, Altean butts were not the same as Human butts, and nobody wanted to get a wedgie while fighting evil. In the end, they were forced to stop at an independent space station to get the team properly fitted out, which took time that Allura was loath to spend.

She was spoiling for a fight when Zaianne parked the Castle in orbit around a handy and uninhabited moon in the Omorog system, and Hunk and Keith were perfectly willing to help her raid a fortress. The sooner that they had Lance back, the sooner that they could go looking for Pidge and their Lions.

“ _You'll be going in alone,”_ Coran told them as their shuttle left the Castle, _“the political situation down there is a little murky at the moment, according to local news. It seems that the planet's Governor did something very unwise right in front of a whole crowd of some of the most illustrious potentates available, and has been demoted; his replacement hasn't been chosen yet, and there are a lot of hopeful candidates looking for something that'll make them look good.”_

“Like capturing one of our Galra friends, I assume?” Allura asked, setting course for Omorog.

“ _Very much so. Lizenne might never have been there, but she apparently did visit the nearby planet of Lonanga some years ago, and she left sort of an impression on the local authorities. This whole star cluster's been plastered with wanted posters.”_

“Let me guess,” Allura said. “Sedition, inciting the natives to riot, organizing resistance groups, littering, and public indecency?”

“ _Yeah, most of that, plus spreading rumors that the Governor was a poor sportsman. That's a very serious matter to the Lonangans. They've upgraded their wanted posters to include Modhri, too, as well as the rest of us, and there's a standing bounty on anyone who even looks like they might be a Blade of Marmora. Quite a big one, too. Held a few parties out here lately, Madame?”_

“ _Not personally,”_ Zaianne replied. _“It's a rich Sector, and the Order's had its hands full keeping the Empire from stripping it bare. Not always successfully, I'm afraid, and Kolanth was spotted during one of those failures. He'd rather not risk another narrow escape.”_

Nobody asked about Helenva's absence from the raiding party. Kelezar, after a long sleep and a good meal, had been apprised of the fact that there were no less than three Blades aboard ship, and that they'd like to add him to the roster. He had thought it over for no less than a whole minute, and then had quite willingly accepted their offer. It had surprised nobody when Helenva had volunteered to administer the first tests of his strength and skill. Allura didn't really mind that the tests were taking up so much of their time and energy; Kelezar's sheer size and resemblance to her sworn enemy still made her uncomfortable around him, and so had gracefully acceded when they had begged off of coming along.

“ _In any case, this shouldn't be too difficult,”_ Coran continued, _“the royal personage whom the Governor insulted has decreed a suspension of all official decision-making until a new Governor is appointed, and is taking a vacation in that odd little palace with only a minimal staff and her personal servants, and it's unlikely that they'll bother calling in any Galra police right now. If you're quick, you should be able to pull this off.”_

“We will be as quick as we can,” Allura promised. “If we are fortunate, we will be out and gone with Lance before they have time to react.”

“Don't jinx it, Princess,” someone behind her muttered, a suggestion she chose to ignore.

For caution's sake, she chose to take them in on a roundabout route that avoided the major shipping lanes, slipping into the atmosphere above the pole and working her way toward their destination on the night side of the planet before taking cover in a major storm system. It made the ride a bit bumpy, unfortunately, which brought some heartfelt complaints out of Hunk, but it allowed them to drop down practically on top of the isolated swamp palace without being seen. With a flair and precision that she was actually quite proud of, she set the ship down on the narrow roadway leading up to the main gates. “Let's go!” she said, grabbing her quarterstaff and heading for the hatch.

“Has anyone ever told you that you fly like a crazy person?” Hunk groaned. “I mean, you're fine in a big ship like the Castle—that's a nice smooth ride every time—but put you in anything smaller than a hoverbus and you go nuts. They taught you how to fly by giving you a do-it-yourself glider kit and then throwing you out of a plane with the kit still in the box, didn't they?”

“Of course,” Allura said, giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence that may or may not have been sincere. “How else do you find out if your trainee has been studying hard enough? Come on.”

“She's kidding, right?” Hunk asked Keith. “She's gotta be kidding.”

Keith shook his head. “I don't know. If half of Coran's stories are true, maybe not.”

The gates were locked, naturally, but Hunk's borrowed blaster soon took care of that, and Allura vented some of her impatience by kicking the doors open. They rushed in past startled guards who seemed to be more ceremonial than anything else. The short, stocky guards put up very little resistance, and when Keith grabbed one and demanded to know where Lance was, the information was instantly forthcoming. “Up in the tower!” the guard squeaked. “In the Royal Suite! Just keep going up! Don't hurt me!”

Getting up to the top proved to be more of an effort than they had anticipated, for some complete jerk had shut down and locked the lifts, leaving only the stairs. A lot of stairs, leading up in a broad spiral with progressively braver guards on each level. They were all puffing and wheezing by the time they reached the top floor, where a genuine dread portal loomed before them. It was a pair of very large doors, paneled in some sort of dark wood, intricately carved, with the classic pair of rings serving as both doorknockers and handles.

Daunted slightly by these objects, they paused to catch their breath. “What an ostentatious door,” Allura muttered.

Hunk vented a breathless laugh for some reason, but that wasn't important right now. “Open it,” Allura snarled.

Keith laid a hand on one of the rings and tugged experimentally; surprisingly, the door wasn't locked. A harder yank brought it open with ease, and they advanced within, weapons at the ready, only to see a tableau that gave them pause. In the center of the room was a low dais, and on the dais on a silken divan lay a large, pale, and plump figure. At its back and to either side were arrayed a crowd of rather dubious-looking people in sinister costume, and lounging suggestively at the large person's feet was Lance, also in costume. This was obviously a staged setting, but Allura had no idea of what was going on. Hunk did, and collapsed to the floor howling with hysterical laughter. Keith also knew, but his reaction was rather different. “NO!” he shouted, apparently infuriated by the sight. “No, no, _no._ Lance, you will apologize to the ghost of Carrie Fisher _right now.”_

Lance grinned at him and patted his wig, which was dark blond, and coiled and braided in a style that Allura thought looked rather attractive on him. “I don't know, I think I carried the look off pretty well. I didn't know that you were a Carrie Fisher fan, Keith.”

“I grew up watching those movies!” Keith snarled back. “Princess Leia has been the feminine ideal for generations of guys since the Seventies—including you, from the look of it—and here we are, having fought our way up fifteen flights of stairs fighting guards the whole way, and what do we find? We find you, defiling her legacy! Take off that stupid costume and pray that she doesn't hex you with stormtroopers.”

“We... we're space heroes,” Hunk gasped between chortles. “We're... we're going to get... stormtroopers _anyway._ I'd say... oh, god, Lance, you look hilarious... that she'll hex us... with annoying robots... but Pidge'd just take... them down for parts. I think that Kaltenecker counts, anyway, even if it's still in storage.”

“What's going on?” Allura asked, mystified.

The large toadlike person on the divan sat up with a girlish trill of laughter that made the Princess stare. “A scene taken from an old science-fiction entertainment vid, apparently. Lance felt that you were hot for a daring rescue, so he chose a classic. I do hope that you didn't injure my guards too seriously on your way up.”

“Um, no, they went over like tenpins and stayed down,” Keith said, not expecting a sweet, motherly voice out of someone with a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. “Most of them ran away.”

“Good, for all that playing the coward must have injured their pride, poor things. They shall have a bonus in their pay packet this month. Now come, we shall have tea and cakes. Sanloss has been experimenting with _petite-fours_ and I wish to sample them. Lance, kindly go put on something more appropriate, you look ridiculous.”

Lance unsnapped the chain from his collar and patted his wig again. “Oh, come on, it makes me feel pretty.”

“ _Lance,”_ she said, a thread of sternness in her voice.

“Yes, Princess,” Lance sighed and beckoned to the crowd of pirates and bounty hunters. “C'mon, guys, if I can't be a captive princess, you can't be space criminals.”

There were snickers and muffled noises of disappointment from the crowd of dubious characters, but they filed obediently out of the room after him.

“Impressive,” Allura said a little enviously. “I wish that I could inspire that kind of obedience in that lout.”

“You're too young, dear,” the toad-woman said frankly, winding the gilded chain up neatly into a coil and handing it off to a servant. “Lance tells me that he is a member of a large and rambling family, and has been ruled from birth by his grandmother, his mother, and a large collection of aunts, great-aunts, and elder siblings and cousins. You, he might see as an older sister, but that's as far as it goes. Helmets and gauntlets off, children, and put away the weapons. One does not take tea while under arms. Come, come, the parlor is right over there. This is an ugly old building, but it is comfortable, and it commands a fine view.”

Before long, they were sitting in a cozy little room, sipping fragrant tea, sampling a variety of tiny pastries, and admiring the morning sun on the surrounding swamp. Their hostess had introduced herself and was telling them of Lance's exploits while in her care when he rejoined them, more appropriately dressed in slacks and a T-shirt. Allura frowned at the collar around his neck, even though Loliqua had promised that it would come off shortly. She remembered the weight of her own collar too well to be comfortable about such things, and probably wouldn't be comfortable about wearing her own necklaces for some time. Lance didn't seem to care and sat down next to Loliqua with perfect ease, topping up her tea before he took a cup for himself. At least she'd done something about his manners.

“--and then that dreadful fool had my poor brave Fanlen shot, right there in front of everyone,” Loliqua was saying, distracting Allura from her teammate. “Not immediately fatal, but a mortal wound nonetheless. At that point, Lance—there you are, dear, do try the ones with the pink and red layers, they're very good—manifested himself as a full-blown Healer. Fanlen was better than new in seconds, although it nearly killed your young man here.”

Allura had to stare at Lance in surprise. A true Healer was almost as rare as a Technomage! “A... a Healer?” she asked. “I never would have guessed that he might have that talent!”

“Yeah,” Lance said, nibbling at a _petit-four._ “I had to ask Blue for help. It worked, but I blew so much energy on healing Fanlen that I nearly died of exhaustion, and almost froze to death because Blue's oriented to water. Magic's not as easy as it looks.”

“It is a difficult and dangerous ability, no matter what branch of the Art one might follow,” Loliqua sighed. “My own mentor died trying to wring sense out of his last Vision, which he at least had the good sense to write down so that it could be interpreted by others. I've seen to it that Lance has spent the last three days in intensive study with an established practitioner of the Healing Art, and you must make sure that he spends at least an hour every day practicing the techniques that he has been taught. I have grown quite fond of this young man and refuse to see his life wasted on a silly miscalculation.”

“That's all right, Lizenne and the Dragons'll make sure that he does his homework,” Hunk said, spraying crumbs. “Hey, he can be Keith's classmate, since he's taking lessons, too. He's a Purifactor.”

“ _Really?”_ Loliqua said, examining the young man and noting the singed eyebrows. “That's extremely rare, boy, and we'll need to get you off of the planet before the local Temples sniff you out, else you'll spend the rest of your life consecrating things and removing curses.”

Keith grunted and rubbed a thumb over one mostly absent eyebrow. “Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. I've kind of gone off religion. I learned my new trick while fighting in the Boniro Temple Arena.”

Loliqua hissed in sympathy. “That's a very bad place. Oh, dear. Speaking of religion, you wouldn't have happened to have seen a Charlugo while you were there?”

Keith blinked at her. “What's a Charlugo?”

“Charlugos are one of the peoples native to this Sector. They are large, covered with shaggy black fur, and have sharp teeth and inappropriate senses of humor. They are also a major societal bellwether, and sensible people keep a close eye on them in times of stress.” Loliqua sipped her tea and gave him a worried look. “They are very sensitive to the winds of change, you see, and the more violent the approaching change, the more likely they are to go mad and form murder cults. Law enforcement agencies become very nervous when Charlugos start taking an interest in gods not their own.”

“Yes,” Keith said, surprised. “His name was Kayell. He was the last survivor of his cult, and he'd been there for... I don't know how long. Weeks, at least. Maybe months. Maybe longer than that.”

Loliqua went very still for a long moment, and then put down her cup with a click. “I am going to have to look into that, and take appropriate action. For a Hand of Kayell to last for longer than a week in captivity, much less in an arena, is a very worrying sign. You weren't required to fight him, were you?”

Keith scowled into the depths of his teacup. “No, thankfully.”

“Good,” she said, relaxing a little.

“Am I missing something here?” Lance asked, giving Keith a quizzical look. “What's so important about this Kayell guy?”

“Kayell is the name of the Charlugo's principal death-deity, and represents the turmoil that comes with sudden change; he is often associated with natural disasters. They believe that the god once visited them in person, in the guise of a small black hole that passed through their home system before they achieved starflight, and the experience left something of an impression upon them. Especially since there are recordings of it devouring one of their neighboring planets, and it took a chunk out of their sun before leaving the system.” Loliqua selected a pastry and ate it moodily. “That turned out to be a good thing in the long run, for that vanished planet was calculated to have been on a collision course with theirs, and having all of that material drawn off of the sun prevented a major solar flare that would have baked them alive. They've had an unusually close relationship with that god ever since.” Loliqua shook her head and gave her guests a wry look. “The Charlugos make the Galra a little uneasy, but since they also make a number of products that the Empire wants very much, they're left largely alone. Every so often, however, when things get a little tense, a few of them will wake up one morning in the sure and certain knowledge that they are become the instrument of the god, and will gather as many like-minded people around themselves as they can find. Oddly enough, they do not make distinctions of race, class, creed, or species—anyone may join their cults. They start killing, and do not stop killing until they themselves are similarly dealt with. There is always one Hand of Kayell per cult. It is said that the Hand carries a seed of the changing fates that caused him to establish his cult in the first place, and to be the one who puts him down is very dangerous; the Hand's death releases that seed, and his killer will have his own fate completely changed in an instant, for good or for ill, no matter how set in stone his destiny seems. If captured, the Hands usually seek to deliver that seed as quickly as they may, to perpetuate whatever will happen next. Any delay usually means that they have someone special in mind.”

Hunk vented a long, impressed whistle and picked up another tea-cake. “That sure matches up with what happened to Kelezar. Zombie one minute, hard-baked prince the next. Speaking of baked, these are great. Can I talk to the cook?”

Loliqua smiled at him. “Of course, dear, he'll be happy to speak to a fellow enthusiast. Who is Kelezar?”

Keith was required to explain that peculiar fellow, and Lance was even more amazed than their hostess. “Wait, you're telling me that we've got Zarkon's own grandson cluttering up the Castle?”

“Yes, although he's been staying aboard the _Chimera_ for secrecy's sake,” Allura said, sipping at her tea. “Helenva's convinced him to join the Blade of Marmora and has been overseeing his early training in the envirodeck. You're off the hook, Lance. His ears are more interesting than yours.”

Keith snickered. Lance scowled at him, sort of half-torn between disappointment and relief. Helenva was a fine figure of a woman, but, frankly, she scared him at times, and it was just as well that she'd found someone new to bully. He hoped. Loliqua's mind was almost visibly spinning with the future ramifications of such an action. “Mother of Swamps,” she murmured in a soft, shocked voice. “That has the potential to change everything. You have made some considerable work for me, but I do not regret it! What do you plan to do now, Paladins?”

Allura drew herself up, squaring her shoulders and leveling a determined look at Loliqua. “We will find our missing team member, remove whatever hexes are still clinging to her, and continue in our mission to thwart the Empire's aims. After that, we will defend what we have won from other evils. I am sorry to say this, for you have been a most gracious hostess, but we really should be getting on with it.”

“As heroes must,” Loliqua sighed and gestured to one of the servants. “Melann, would you please go to my rooms and bring me the carven casket from the big lorrawood chest? Thank you.”

The servant bowed and trotted off, returning shortly with the casket that she'd brought back from the Shrine of Leodram. This was opened, revealing a small flask of faceted crystal that contained some sort of greenish liquid. “A few days ago, I had a Vision that I was required to Act upon instantly. Lance, you will take this with you when you go. The Waters of the Spring of Leodram have the power to weaken curses that no other Art may remove. You may well need it, if not for your teammate, then for someone else. Do convey my greetings to your Aunt Lizenne for me, and give her my invitation to speak of aetheric matters with me. For the next three local months I will reside in the Winter Palace near the City of Grothora, just south of the Cauldron Plain. Do try to return before those three months are up, please, because after that it'll be roughly six weeks before I will be able to think of anything other than spawning.”

Lance took the small bottle carefully from the casket. It sloshed in a perfectly ordinary way. “Thanks, Loliqua, for everything. It's been a lot of fun.”

“For me as much as for you,” she said, wrapping an arm around him in a fond embrace. “Go and make your farewells to the children, Lance, and Hunk, you had better go and raid Sanloss's recipe book while you've the chance. Ah! How I shall miss you!”

 

Prince Lotor scanned the reports that he'd been given. The Ghost Fleet was still being as elusive as their namesake, although that was not entirely a bad thing; while the _Quandary_ had not been seen, neither had the _Night Terror._ He would never admit it to anyone, but he was willing to trade a certain amount of the larger ship's absence for a lack of Hoshinthra. His father had been right to destroy those creatures, although he could have been a little more thorough about it. At the moment, his fleet lay at rest in orbit around a gas giant in a deserted system, the better to keep those damned tabloid reporters from noising his location about to the universe at large; he privately resolved to erase those gossip screeds when he next had the opportunity, since they served the enemy better than they did the Empire.

Lieutenant Tilwass approached with a bow and offered a small screen. “Interrogation report, Highness. The specialists think that they've gotten pretty much everything.”

Lotor smiled and accepted the report. Even with the threat of having his spinal column cored out, Plosser had not told them all of his secrets. That was only natural, and Lotor had not expected him to; therefore, the information extractors had gotten their turn with the vile Juskoran. “Good. How much of him did they leave intact?”

“Pretty much everything, Highness. He's even still sane. Just really sore.” Tilwass smirked. “One of the specialists picked up a Nartunic neural stimulater while we were at Orpaxus and tweaked it a little. Worked a treat. What do you want done with him?”

Lotor hummed absently, skimming the new data, which was very interesting. “For starters, I want that stinking creature off of my ship and every room that he has been in deodorized. Put him in a cell aboard... oh, the _Szarcana,_ I think, and tell Captain Brozan that he and his crew are welcome to play with the pirate as they wish until they have an opportunity to drop him off at the Calomyx labor camp. In the meantime, we have business elsewhere.”

Tilwass cocked him an interested look. “Where to, Highness?”

Lotor grinned evilly. “Belosha System, the fifth planet from the sun, and a small moon in particular. The _Quandary_ has a hidey-hole there, and it may well be a good idea to check it for occupancy.”

“I'll tell the pilots, Highness.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who claims that Keith's dad wouldn't have watched the original Star Wars trilogy religiously with his infant son can fight me. Also, we placed a teeny tiny Yu Yu Hakusho reference in this chapter. Extra points to anyone who catches it. ^_^
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who gives kudos or comments. It's a big bright point of our day to read them, and encourages us to keep going.


	25. Seige!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been up yesterday, except that while doing a final proofreading, we spotted a massive temporal plothole. Not feeling the need to leave a space so large that a Tardis could get stuck in it, (I know what you guys are thinking, and no. While sonic screwdrivers are definitely a match for this series, the bowtie and fez do not) so we needed an extra day to fix that up. But now, all is ready! Enjoy!

Chapter 25: Siege!

 

Varda dashed at full speed across the catwalk, bayard in hand and eyes darting around for her foe. He was around here somewhere, drat him, and as canny and quick as she was, if not more so. There was a flash of olive and silver from her left as a slim, wiry figure launched itself from one of the upper catwalks to land directly in her path, blades raised and ready to fight. She grinned, but never slowed, and deflected the two knives that hissed through the air at her. She leaped to avoid a third strike, spun gracefully in the air, and landed ready to face him. They danced, fencing with a speed and skill that would have surprised any other opponent very much, and the bout ended when one of her opponent's weapons was knocked from his hand and over the rail. There was a curse from below. He laughed, signaled for a break, and leaned over the side. “Sorry! Who did it hit?”

“Nobody, but my snack will never be the same,” someone below him shouted back, and the knife came whizzing back up. “I hope that you've cleaned that blade recently. Watch where you drop those things, all right?”

Nasty caught the knife with ease and shouted back, “You guys all know about our practice sessions, and should know to keep your distance. Yeah, the knife's clean, and it's non-ferrous. You're safe, Loum.”

Loum was a Hubraki, and they often had allergic reactions to iron if it got into their food. She wasn't alone in that sort of thing, and Ronok had a huge selection of cookware as a result, in every material from wood to metal to ceramic as a result. Thankfully, common hullplate was largely hypoallergenic, but there were always exceptions, and Nasty's knife collection wasn't culinary-grade. He sniffed at the blade before wiping it off and gave Varda a grin. “Want to take a break? Ronok's made laplan tasso. With twillik sauce, from the smell of it.”

She nodded and put away her bayard. “I'll pass on the sauce, but I could use a snack. I was winning, anyway.”

Nasty laughed and headed back toward the lift that would take them down to the _Osric's_ kitchen. “Only 'cause I'm wrecked. Wow, but that destroyer did a lot of damage! We're almost done, though. Another few bolts to tighten and wires to connect, and then we're out of here.”

“And then we can go looking for my family,” Varda said, yawning.

Nasty gave her a look of sympathy and patted her shoulder with one slim hand. “Yeah. Those Lions are taking up room we can't spare. If they don't show up to claim them, maybe we can raffle them off...”

She nudged him sharply in the ribs for that, but he only chuckled. This was just part of the banter they often shared during their late-night practice sessions. Weary as they both were from their efforts to repair the _Quandary,_ they needed the physical and emotional release of these bouts more than either of them cared to admit. It was better even than loading the Stronghold with booby traps, largely because Varda had run out of places to booby trap. The next invader to knock on the doors was going to get a whole list of nasty surprises, and the crew approved.

The lift took them down into the ship that she'd called home for half a year now, and a little more walking brought them to the fragrant and comforting cavern of the mess hall, where Ronok himself met them with bowls of hot, noodley goodness. “You're up late,” Varda observed as she wound the thick pasta around her fork.

Ronok shrugged. “Decided on comfort food today. Quick, easy, and plentiful. Yantilee wants morale to stay good, and that's easier on a happy belly. We're almost done with repairs.”

“Nasty told me,” Varda said, adding a sprinkle of salt to her bowl. “How soon will we be able to leave?”

“Haswick says another day or so at the current pace,” Ronok replied, handing her a tall glass of water. “We got lucky. Two meters to the right, he says, and that blast would have taken out one of the big gyros. That would have taken a month to clear, rebuild, and replace, and we would have been upside-down the whole time.”

Nasty's eyes rolled heavenward. “Small mercies. Still, we've done a lot in a short time. I wonder how far Tchak's gotten with his repairs? His ship was messed up worse than ours.”

“We'll have to ask him,” Varda said, her heart lifting at the thought of seeing her friends again. “I just hope that Voan Lenna's all right. The _Skee Hanno_ caught a few beams as well.”

Nasty waved a reassuring hand and slurped up a forkful of noodles. “He's fine. I know that ship and that crew, and both of them love that old man too much to let him down. Best Captain ever, this side of Yantilee. How's that old dragon doing, Ronok? I've been too busy to see much of her... him... whatever.”

Ronok chuckled and offered him a napkin. “Holding up as well as she can, which is very. Elikonians don't shake easily. Doc's been grumbling about that hormonal problem of hers, and I've been doing my best to help keep the switching to a minimum.”

Nasty grunted, wiping sauce off of his face. “Crinian obbest? I know that you won a whole crate of crinian off of Ketzewan's cook. You'd think that they'd learn not to play Dix-Par with you.”

Ronok smiled slyly. “I only cheat when there's a need. Crinian's rare out here. That and a jar of pickled sorluss seems to be helping. It's all I can do.”

Varda patted his hand comfortingly. “Every bit helps,” she said, and would have continued, but a loud blare from the disaster siren drowned out anything she might have had to say.

“ _Alert! Alert! All hands on deck, all gunnery crews to your weapons, all techs to your stations!”_ Yantilee's voice boomed over the PA system. _“Lotor's found us. He doesn't have any more planet-busters with him, but massed cannon fire will be bad enough. Kezz, get that particle barrier up, and Varda, see to the main gun. All noncombat personnel are to get down into the_ Quandary _right now and to help the repair crews finish up.”_

Varda couldn't hear the word that Nasty spat as he leaped up from his unfinished meal, but she was good enough at lip-reading now to know that it was one of his best. She caught the packet of emergency rations that Ronok tossed her and ran for the gunnery control room. Kezz was already there, sitting on the particle barrier generator and staring in apprehension at the screen, where the great looming purple shapes of Galra warships hung, ready for action.

“ _\--bloody great fleet of Galra again,”_ the surly old AI was saying testily, _“held 'em off three times, so I did, though the fourth time didn't go so well. They'd come out here with a bigger gun than we were ready to deal with._ Quiznek _, what a pushy bunch, then and now!”_

“Yeah, it's a major character flaw,” Kezz replied. “Captain says to get the barrier up, Cedran. Ears, right?”

“ _If you would, kind sir.”_

As Varda watched, her friend stood up, bowed to the generator, and then carefully slammed his face hard enough against the housing to knock his ears off. The AI cackled appreciatively and the generator hummed into life, and she took up the controls with only a token glare at the machine.

“That smarts,” Kezz muttered, picking up his fallen ears and laying them atop the generator. “Sheilds're up, Yantilee. Should we start looking for targets?”

“ _They're not quite within range yet,”_ Yantilee replied, _“but focus the main gun on the larger ships, and the Flagship if it comes close enough. This will be a siege, I think; they're jamming all comm signals, so we won't be able to call for help. They want the Lions, and us, and they don't seem to care whether we surrender first or not.”_

“Not that we will,” Varda growled, glaring at the Flagship. “Has he called up to gloat at us yet?”

“ _No, which surprises me a little,”_ Haswick replied. _“It's practically required for a Villain to do that, you know.”_

Kezz snorted. “I doubt that he sees himself as a villain. I just want to know how he found us.”

Yantilee rumbled, sounding irritated. _“The Stronghold's location has been the closely-guarded secret of the_ Quandary's _officer corps ever since it was discovered; I can think of only one way that the Prince might have learned it.”_

“Plosser,” Varda hissed. “I told you that we should've spaced him, Yantilee.”

“ _You may have been right.”_ Yantilee admitted. _“It makes no difference in the end. If we have to sacrifice the Stronghold, we will. The_ Quandary's _repairs are almost finished; if we can hold those bastards off long enough to do so, even if the shields fail and they manage to breach the fort itself, so long as they do not pop the ship's hatches, it's enough. The rear bay doors run on a separate system from the rest of the fort, so we'll be able to cut and run, especially if we cloak first.”_

Varda blinked. “Wait, the Stronghold bay has back doors? The whole moon is hollow?”

Haswick laughed.  _“We're_ pirates,  _Varda! A good pirate always makes sure that he's got more than one exit. Let them bang on the front doors all they want, since they have to do it carefully to avoid damaging the treasure. When we're ready, we can nip out of the back with the loot and leave them cursing behind us. If we're lucky, that big gun of ours will blow a hole in whoever's jamming our comms, and we'll call in the Fleet for help if we have to. You can just bet your bippy that the Talssenemai will come looking for her favorite target.”_

Varda giggled and grinned fiercely at the screen. “Right. Cedran, we've got a really big gun, and they can't use theirs. Want to help me target a few of them?”

The AI humphed. _“Well... all right. Confusion to the enemy, and all that. But don't get your hopes up about deciphering my systems, young lady.”_

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Varda replied rather untruthfully; she'd have that program's chips on a platter sooner or later. “Now, let's see if we can get a good targeting solution on that big destroyer over there...”

A few minutes later, Haswick spoke again. _“They're scanning us. Probably looking for weak points. I'm blocking what I can, but I can't block everything. They'll be firing ranging shots soon to test the shields. Let's hope that the particle barrier can hold up under that sort of thing.”_

“It will,” Varda said, although she wasn't sure why she felt so confident about that. “With that and all the other shields that have been planted around the place over the years, we could hold them off for weeks, unless Princey Prancy-Pants gets impatient.”

“ _Hope that he doesn't,”_ Yantilee said grimly. _“Ah. There's the first one.”_

One of the heavy destroyers spat a beam of incandescent light at them. The barrier barely felt it; the ship was still too far away for the shot to do any real damage. _“Hold your fire,”_ Yantilee cautioned, _“we know their range now. How does it measure up to ours?”_

Kezz studied his control board. “Looks like we've got the range on 'em. We could shoot down that destroyer right now if we liked, especially with the main gun.”

“ _Good. Let them come a little bit closer. I want to catch that Prince both coming and going.”_

The AI cackled. _“I say, I rather like your Captain. Quite a good military mind there.”_

“We like her, too,” Varda replied. “Here they come. Just give us the word, Yantilee. I'm powering up the main gun now.”

The huge purple ships eased closer, although slowly; the Prince had learned caution since their last battle, at least. The Stronghold's shields began to shudder under the blows of enemy fire, but held. Yantilee bade them hold their fire for several long, uncomfortable minutes, luring the fleet closer in, and then barked _“NOW!”_ in a voice that had Varda's hand striking the firing controls without her willing it.

The main gun, primed and ready, responded with a huge thick white beam that lanced out and blasted not only the targeted destroyer to pieces, but took out two more and severely damaged a third. Kezz followed that up with a swarm of seeker pulses from the particle barrier itself that caused fire to bloom from a dozen more. Other gunnery emplacements spoke, forcing the fleet to retreat out of range, leaving quite a bit of debris behind them. Yantilee ordered a cease-fire after that. No point in wasting energy, she said, and it would allow the escape pods from the ruined ships to reach the safety of their fellows. Pirates though they were, they weren't so completely without honor that they would fire on the lifeboats.

“Comms still jammed?” Kezz asked, watching the tiny pods scrambling for cover.

“ _Yes,”_ Haswick replied. _“We'll find the right one eventually.”_

 

“Holy crow, he does look like a supersized Zarkon,” Lance muttered to Hunk. “I didn't know that they came that big.”

“He's a giant,” Keith said quietly. “Don't make an issue of it, all right? It's not his fault.”

Allura nodded. “The dragons like him, and I trust their judgment. They haven't been wrong yet, have they?”

Kelezar seemed to have adjusted fairly well to his new circumstances, and was currently kneeling on the lounge floor and scrubbing hard at Soluk's shoulders. For his part, the dragon had flopped down flat on his belly and was grunting happily at getting a really good scratching. Nearby, Helenva and Kolanth were polishing Tilla's belly scales. Zaianne, Lizenne, Coran, and Modhri were nowhere to be seen, although that wasn't surprising. Someone had to stay on watch, after all. As they watched, Helenva leaned over to Kelezar and said something coyly, to which the enormous male responded with an infatuated smile and eyes full of hope. Lance had an older sister and a lot of girl-cousins, many of whom were old enough to think of boys as something other than smelly nuisances. He knew exactly what that exchange meant and once again felt that curious mix of envy and relief, even though he knew very well that he and Helenva would've been a poor match even if she had seen him as something more than a target for teasing. As it was, she was going to be giving that big guy a real run for his money, and Kolivan would definitely have uses for him. “The Blades are going to have all kinds of fun with him, aren't they?”

“Yeah,” Hunk said. “If things work out, he's gonna have an interesting career as a space ninja. Maybe even an Emperor space ninja later on, and Helenva's got first dibs. Before you ask, it's him she likes, not his possibilities.” Hunk then raised his arm and waved at the three Galra. “Hey, guys, we're back! Look at what we found, can we keep him?”

Kolanth looked up from his work, leaned an elbow on Tilla's leg, and fixed the new arrival with a dubious look. “Oh, I don't know, he looks a bit fleabit and ratty. You'll have to make sure that he's properly washed and combed out, and that he gets all of his shots, and--”

“Nice to see you too, Kolanth,” Lance said acidly. “I'm fine, hardly eaten by alligators at all. No drama whatsoever, even the alien invasion was pretty anticlimactic. The snacks were good though.”

Kelezar chuckled. “I like him. Can we keep him, Dad?”

“Don't you start,” Kolanth sighed, and then nearly fell over backward when Tilla rolled upright and went to sniff Lance over, licking his face and whurfling at him until he laughed. She rumbled a long string of crackles and whistles at Soluk, who replied in kind, then came to have a sniff for himself. Lance hugged them both, careful of their spiny scales. “Hi,” he said, “at least someone here missed me. Where are the others?”

“Zaianne and Coran are on the bridge waiting for you at the moment, and Modhri and Lizenne are in the _Chimera.”_ Helenva stood up and stretched. “As soon as you can tell them where Pidge is, we'll get moving again. Did you have a decent time, Lance?”

Lance pushed Soluk's nose away from his collarbone. “Yeah, I lucked out. So did you, I think.”

He'd glanced at Kelezar when he'd said that, and Helenva surprised him by giggling. Kelezar smirked but didn't get up, extending a large hand toward the Paladin. “Kelezar Szaah'Tirr. You'd be Lance. Good to meet you.”

Lance's hands weren't small; indeed, one of his uncles had likened him to a puppy once, observing that the youngster was all paws and ears. Compared to the huge hand he shook now, he felt as fairy-fingered as Pidge. He could only admire the giant's control, though—his grip was firm, but not crushing. “Nice to meet you too. You've made some friends here.”

Kelezar patted Tilla, who was nuzzling interestedly at the back of his neck. “Yeah. I'm not used to being around folks who are bigger than me. If they do decide to let us train on Zampedri, I'm going to have a lot of fun there. I know that I like the _Chimera's_ envirodeck. Better get to the bridge, you all. Zaianne kind of wants to get going, and Coran's been antsy since you left.”

Zaianne and Coran were indeed glad to see Lance back safe and sound, although Zaianne turned serious when she grasped him by the chin and gazed deeply into his eyes. “You've learned something, boy. What happened? Tell us.”

Lance was then required to report his adventures, although Keith did glare at him again when he got to the part where the other Paladins had shown up to rescue him, and Zaianne gave a crack of laughter that echoed off of the crystal above her. Coran and the other Galra could only glance at each other in confusion.

“I'm missing something again, aren't I?” Coran said a bit sulkily. “No fair having a joke if half the audience doesn't get it.”

Zaianne grinned at him. “It's a scene from the third in a trilogy of entertainment vids from Earth, where one of the Heroes had been captured, the Heroine enslaved and dressed rather provocatively, and the somewhat naive third come to rescue them from the den of their captor, a very large and dangerous creature that looked a bit like a garden pest. Lance was playing the part of the damsel in distress. Apt, but silly. Khaeth, if you keep making that face it'll stick that way.”

“He's a disgrace to Carrie Fisher's memory,” Keith grumbled, “and he owes me all the geek points ever.”

Zaianne chuckled. “Not as much as he would if he'd played Han Solo's part. Id've turned him over my knee and smacked him, carbonite and all, if he'd tried that.”

Lance stared at her. “You like Han Solo?”

“Boy, I must have watched those movies at least a dozen times when I was healing up from the crash or too pregnant with your brother to move.” Zaianne smiled nostalgically. “Han Solo was one of the few things that made it bearable. Khaeth's father was a lovely man, but that Harrison Ford... mmm- _mmm!”_

“ _Mom!”_ Keith said in the same horrified tone that Coran used when she'd said something shocking.

“ _It sounds like you had a great deal of fun, dear, and I'll want to have a look at you later,”_ Lizenne's voice came slightly tinnily into the room; she was smiling at them from a secondary screen. _“Full-blown Healers are extremely rare. For now, however, we have a sterner duty; where is Pidge, and where are the Lions? Find them, and guide us there.”_

Zaianne stepped down from the pilot's dais and offered the posts to Allura, who leaped up and took the helm without hesitation. Lance and the others took up positions around her, and they all took a deep breath and concentrated. They were still and silent for a long moment, seeking their absent packmate. Abruptly, Allura looked up and summoned the star charts, constellations and galaxies whizzing around them like snowflakes in a blizzard; a flick of her wrists sent the universe tumbling, spinning the cosmos in all directions before closing in on one tiny, isolated solar system. This was magnified, and magnified, and magnified again, until the planets hung in the air like balloons around the tiny section of the sun that would fit into the image, focusing in on a tiny, battered-looking moon.

“There,” Allura said breathlessly, “right there. _Inside...”_

Coran's hands were quick on the controls, locking in that moon and extrapolating its exact location from the nearby constellations. “Hah! I know that one! That's one of the old border fortresses, set up during one of the early conflicts between us and the Galra. Fort Brondan, I think. Held off three major assaults, it did. Shame about the fourth. One of my uncles served as a senior engineer over there, keeping the particle barrier and the Fort's AI functioning smoothly, and training cadets. Oh, he was a terror, he was. Had a thing about ears. Any time one of his trainees annoyed him, he'd have 'em off and frame them. He'd managed to get a whole wall's worth before his commander told him to stop that.”

Zaianne raised an eyebrow at him. “I'm surprised that he wasn't called home and court-martialed.”

Coran tugged at his mustache. “They might've, but they needed his skills more than his good behavior at the time. Besides, they'd posted him to the border for a reason, y'know. Alfor didn't want him and his ear collection anywhere near the home Academies. As it was, they didn't bother to salvage the place after the Galra navy broke it. Too banged up, and the AI'd gone mad. Probably dead by now, poor thing.”

“And now it's a den of pirates,” Zaianne mused. “Interesting. I wonder, Coran, are there any more of those--”

Hunk let out a yell, cutting her off midword. “She's in trouble! Lotor's found them and they're fighting back, but the barrier can't take much more--”

“It's gone!” Keith shouted, eyes seeing the flare of a dying mechanism that was many lightyears away. “Secondary shields are holding, but--”

“We've gotta get over there, now!” Lance said sharply. “He wants the Lions!”

“We are going!” Allura declared, and Coran hurried to send the coordinates to the _Chimera._ “He will not have them or her, I swear it!”

A few seconds later, a wormhole opened up and Allura threw the Castle through it, the _Chimera_ close behind them.

 

Varda groped around for her glasses with one hand, trying to blink away the blue and purple afterimages and scrubbing at her streaming eyes with the other. The room was noticably warmer than it had been, and the air stank of fried insulation. Dimly, she could hear Kezz groaning. He sounded more stunned than hurt, at least; Vontakles were a tough bunch. She muttered a curse and glared up at the Flagship. Lotor wasn't used to having to work for a prize, and tended to smash things when he became impatient. Six hours of near-constant hammering on the barrier hadn't gotten him anywhere, so he'd apparently decided that enough was enough. Despite the risk of damaging the Lions, he'd ordered his men to let loose with the big ion cannon. The Stronghold's barrier was a powerful system, built for protracted sieges, but it had been built eons ago, badly damaged, and then repaired over the years by people who hadn't fully understood the mechanisms, and had improvised where the original parts had been lost. Lotor's fleet was top-of-the line, and had been commissioned and designed by people who had better things to do than wait out a siege. Cedran had given it his all, but the AI couldn't keep the particle barrier up under repeated blows from the huge battleship. A glance over at the generator showed her a dimly-glowing pile of slag where once a proud mechanism had stood. That left only the conventional shields, and the Galra knew how to deal with those.

“Cedran?” Kezz asked, answered only by silence. _“Cedran?”_

Varda shook her head. “I think he's dead, Kezz. The generator blew. We've lost the barrier. I'm sorry.”

Kezz began to weep. He'd become very fond of the AI over the past week or so, and had enjoyed trading war stories with the thing. “Aw, Cedran, no. He was my friend, Varda. All he wanted out of the universe was ears!”

She patted his shoulder awkwardly and ran a scan on the big gun. That had survived the blast, thankfully, but it still needed another few minutes to recharge. “And he got them, Kezz. You made him very happy. Help me avenge him, all right? Keep the secondary shields up for me. I think that the Flagship just might be within range of the main gun.”

Kezz dashed tears from his eyes and shook a defiant fist at their attacker, then dove for the control board, glancing at the fort's power gauge as he did so. What he saw did not please him. “That's not good, Varda. I don't know what was powering the barrier, but it's under a lot of stress. The secondary shields aren't as fuel-efficient.”

“Probably a Balmeran crystal,” Varda said, although she had no idea why she was so sure about that. “They're pretty awesome, but there are limits. We'll just have to pick our shots carefully. Yantilee, how are the other gunnery teams doing, and are the repairs finished yet?”

“ _Almost.”_ Yantilee sounded weary, and Varda wondered if he'd slept at all during the last four days. _“The repair crews found an issue in the warp drive that would've tossed us into the nearest sun. They've straightened that out and are running the last checks. They think that we'll be able to leave tonight, but no sooner. The other gunners are reporting flagging power levels as well, and losing the barrier was not good. Is there any way to repair it?”_

Varda glanced at the pile of cooling metal. “If I had the yellow Paladin here, maybe he could have done it. I can't. It's dead, along with Cedran. Kezz is really upset about that.”

“ _I don't blame him.”_ Varda heard a deep sigh over the comm. _“Damn. I wish we'd had time to free Walmanech. This was our last fallback. Do your best to hold them off, you two. We just need a few more hours. If we have to buy it with the booby traps you've been building into the fortress, then so be it.”_

“Right,” Kezz said, although he didn't look too happy about the possibility of hand-to-hand fighting in the halls. “Main gun's powered up. Want to see if we can scorch Lotor's hull?”

“Oh, you betcha,” Varda growled, targeting the Flagship's ion cannon. “Fire!”

The main gun lit up like a holiday decoration and let fly with another bright beam. Up it flew, straight and true, and would have shaved several hundred tons of metal off of Lotor's ship if another captain, suicidally faithful to his lord, hadn't spotted the gun's angle and interposed his own destroyer between that beam and the Prince. The destroyer was blown to atoms, but the Flagship's shields held, and the huge ion cannon responded with a blast that went right through the fort's defenses and turned the main gun into a fog of vaporized metal. Swarms of fighter drones descended in the wake of that blast to take advantage of the shattered shields, strafing the lesser gun emplacements until the barrels fused.

“Crap,” Varda said, a sentiment that was echoed by over three hundred fellow pirates.

“They'll be banging on the main doors soon,” Kezz said tensely, then indicated some unusual action around some of the smaller craft. “Yeah, see? Troop landers. The doors are big, but they're old, and they took a real beating the last time this place was breached. Yantilee, we're in trouble.”

“ _I'm aware,”_ Yantilee replied, sounding worryingly calm.

Varda was thinking hard, though. The front gates of the old fort were set into a stand-alone structure that was the only aboveground admit to the rest of the complex. The main doors opened outward only, and there was a large staging area behind them, suitable for official functions and ceremonies. There had once been a sort of industrial elevator system built into the floor, possibly to get supplies into the lower levels, but that had jammed immovably long ago. The only admit into the fort itself now was a single door in the back of the room that had been retrofitted with a hatch taken from a vault that had once stored high-grade fissionables. The whole room itself was a natural cavern, a huge bubble of stone that had been carefully reinforced in the distant past. The ensuing millennia had not been kind, however, and Maozuh had told everyone who would listen about the cracking in the walls. Varda herself had had a look just the previous day, and had noticed the scattering of stone chips on the floor under the worst areas. _Right,_ she thought, and turned back to the comm. “Yantilee, how long do you think it'll take them to blow the doors?”

There was a faint _boom_ in the distance, and the floor shook ever so slightly. _“Perhaps a half-hour, if they're using the standard shaped charges. Why?”_

“I've got an idea, but I need three things.” Varda's hands danced over the comm's controls. “Rh'attz, come in, do you hear me?”

“ _Yeah, I'm here. What do you need, Miss?”_

“How long has it been since you did your laundry?”

There was a startled silence from the other end.  _“Not since before the last big battle, Miss, I haven't had time! I'm on my last pair of clean underwear, and I've had to put the rest of my wardrobe in a sealed drum to keep from spontaneous combustion.”_

“Perfect. Get that drum into the front hall, and right now. Drop whatever you're doing and do it! Somlesc, where are you?”

“ _Trying to get the ship's engines back up, Miss. What's going on?”_

“I'm buying time, but I need you to have a talk with the demon in your toaster to pull it off. If it agrees to help us out, bring it to the front hall. Rh'attz is willing to sacrifice his shorts for the cause.”

Rh'attz had been banned from bringing even his clean laundry anywhere near Somlesc's quarters for very good reasons, and Somlesc was perfectly capable of putting two and two together. There was a faint choking noise, and the snakelike alien said rather shakily, _“I'll go and ask him.”_

A few minutes later, he spoke again. _“He's willing to make the sacrifice, Miss. He says that you're awesome and was thinking about going back home anyway, and this is the best sendoff he could ask for.”_

“I respect that,” Varda said gravely, wondering absently what it said about her that she now found this sort of thing to be normal. “Ronok, do you copy?”

“ _I'm here. What's happening? The whole moon shook!”_

“We've lost the shields and guns. I'm buying time. Do we have any flatbread?”

“ _A few rounds lurking in the bottom of the cooler, yes. They're pretty stale, and Dwesk wanted them for one of her bug farms.”_

“I just need one. Bring it up to the front hall, please, and bring a respirator mask.”

“ _What? Never mind, I'm coming.”_

A little time later, the four of them had assembled in the front hall. Just as Ronok arrived with a ten-inch round of something that resembled cardboard, something on the other side of the huge main doors went _boom,_ and the whole cavern shuddered. A rain of fine grit sifted down from the walls and ceiling from cracks that had widened visibly. “Wow, is that unstable,” Ronok said nervously, handing Varda the stale flatbread. “What are you... oh.”

His eyes took in Rh'attz and his large, bulging drum, Somlesc and his armsful of demonic toaster, and Varda's determined expression. “Well, it'll certainly do the trick. Good thinking, although it's a shame to treat this place that way.”

“I can live with that,” Varda said, turning the flatbread in her hands. “Osric, seal the vent shafts. Room fans to full.”

There were clangs from all around the upper stories as her command was obeyed, and the still air began to move as the fans hummed to life.

“Masks on, people,” Varda said, fitting her own over her face. “Unseal the drum, Rh'attz.”

The lid came off with a loud pop of compressed gases, and the air actually began to shimmer above the drum.

“Somlesc, the toaster.”

Somlesc tearfully placed the appliance down on top of the vile laundry and stood back. Varda stepped forward and offered it the flatbread. The door flipped open of its own accord, accepted the offering, and closed firmly. They all took a step back as the doors boomed again. Rh'attz saluted his shorts. Somlesc saluted his noble friend. Ronok saluted them both, and Varda saluted everybody. Then they ran for the hatch and locked it firmly behind them.

Roughly twenty minutes later, the doors that had stood firm for ten thousand years were finally sundered, a huge chunk of armorplate breaking off and falling away into a pond of steaming algae. Elated by this triumph, the invaders never noticed how the oxygen-rich air rushed into the cavern beyond. They sent in a small army of Sentries to deal with any defenders and found nothing but a drum and a kitchen appliance; a pair of soldiers peered in through the still-warm opening, puzzled by this lack of resistance. The only thing that might have tipped them off that a surprise was coming was misinterpreted entirely by the junior soldier. _“Ugggh,_ that stinks! Sergeant, you'd better lay off of the fried paslen, it really doesn't agree with you.”

The sergeant grunted sourly. “That's not me. Is that a toaster oven in there? What are they trying to pull?”

“Dunno Sarge, but it's busted. Look at it smoke--”

The entire moon shook as the mixture of gases in the cavern reached the right proportions, and a huge fireball bloomed like a rose from the front entrance. Thousands of tons of stone came thundering down as the dome collapsed with an almighty crash, crushing the Sentries utterly and covering the admit hatch under a mountain of boulders that might take weeks to clear. Everything that had been outside of the hole in the main doors had gotten a roasting as well, which would only serve to slow them further.

Secure in the knowledge that someone out there was jumping up and down and cussing, Varda and her friends traded high-fives, and then went to clean up and get some lunch.

 

It was a good, if temporary measure, and it held off the invaders for just barely long enough. For some reason unknown to any of them, one of the ships in Lotor's fleet was carrying large earthmoving equipment, and the heavy vehicles were able to get the vast pile of broken stone hauled aside in a handful of hours. Getting the admit open took them another two; the wall had cracked under the force of the explosion and cave-in and the frame had warped out of true enough to seal the hatch as tightly as if door and frame had been cast as a single piece. By that time, the sappers had gotten tired of this and had crammed a very large charge against the frame, and the final explosion not only took out the admit, but the hallway beyond it, and the entire south wall of the main cavern. Catwalks snapped like twigs as the wall came down, several of the antigravity generators shorting out or going haywire as flying debris crushed their control rings. Thankfully, no one was hurt; all nonessential personnel were down in the _Quandary,_ working frantically to finish the repairs. Varda and Yantilee were still aboveground in the fortress, overseeing the last preparations when the walls were breached. By this time Varda was in her armor, having anticipated this moment. She stared at screens that flickered with static as they showed Sentries and soldiers pouring through the broken wall. She sighed; it had come to this after all. “Osric,” she said, and felt the ship below focus his attention upon her. “Activate all booby traps still functional in the fort. Level 5—Fluffy Bunnies. Anything and anyone not on our side catches hell.”

A nearby speaker emitted a ghostly cackle, and her mental map lit up with a veritable minefield of danger spots. Any invader caught in one of those would not leave it alive. It was just as well that they would not be returning once they'd left, since she really didn't want even to think of the cleanup. Yantilee was more sanguine about the matter and nodded in approval. They were in the emergency control center now; one door led out into the rest of the fort, while the other led to the lifts that went down to the ship. It was their responsibility to make sure that nobody was left behind. Yantilee's lower right hand hovered continually over the main comm switch that would allow him to order everyone below. He and Varda would descend last, and only when everyone else was accounted for. There was still a skeleton crew up here, manning what few defenses were left. It wasn't long before they started to get calls from those teams.

“ _Locking off the clinic now, Captain,”_ she heard Varis say. _“Shame that, we can't replace some of the stuff in there. Heading for the lifts—whoops! So much for that drone. Nice traps, Varda.”_

“ _Rigging the last gunnery control room to blow,”_ she heard Nasty report a few minutes later. _“Sentries all over the fratzing place. These'll go off when we pop the back doors. Heading for the lifts.”_

“ _Just had to fight off a squad of Sentries,”_ another crewman panted, _“nobody's dead, but we've got wounded. Heading for the lifts.”_

There were calls from below, too.

“ _Everything stowed and ready, Captain.”_

“ _We're within three-quarters of an hour of being ready to leave, Captain. Final checks underway.”_

“ _Enemy ships are focusing on the breach, Captain, we'll have a clean exit—whoa! Watch your shorts, everybody! The Flagship just launched a bunch of landers. Looks like the Prince himself wants to play, now that his guys have done all of the hard work for him.”_

Yantilee's hand hit the master comm switch. “All hands, all hands, hear this! Get to the _Quandary_ right now. Do not stay for anything other than to carry the wounded. We will leave no one here for those _salpaskins_ to question.”

Yantilee was obeyed immediately, and the skeleton crew began to file through, in a hurry but not panicking. Not all of the teams were complete, unfortunately, and the leaders were forced to report casualties. “Got ambushed,” Nasty panted, blood seeping from a dozen shallow cuts on his arms. “We lost Josac, Dwonni, and Lursa. If we hadn't made it past number Eighty-Seven, none of us would've gotten out of there alive. Nice traps, Varda, I'm proud to work with you.”

She found a smile for him, but it was a bit pale. She'd known those three crewmen, and had liked them. She'd have a good cry later, but right now she had work to do. Yantilee frowned and went calmer than ever, a very bad sign to anyone who knew anything about Elikonians. If Lotor got this far before the ship was ready to go, there wouldn't be anything left of him but a greasy purple smear on the decking. “Get below, Nasty,” she said sternly, “we'll be down in a minute.”

“ _Captain!”_ Kezz's voice called from the comm, _“we're trapped! Pinned in the laundry room, both doors blocked by the enemy. These old dryers are good cover, but they aren't going to last forever.”_

Terror flashed through Varda's heart. “I'm going to go and help him. I'm not losing him, too, Yantilee, and--”

There was a thundering roar from below that rattled every bone in her body. The Lions!

Haswick yelped. _“Captain! The Paladin's ships just arrived, and the Lions are going nuts! They're moving!”_

“Get those bay doors open!” Varda shouted back, barely able to hear her own voice over Shechethra's exultant bellowing. “Don't argue! We've already got Galra in the house, it won't matter.”

“There they go,” Yantilee observed, watching four great cats hurl themselves out into space.

Belatedly, the nearest Galra craft tried to shoot the Lions down, but their shots went wide. The red one paused to flick a lash of fire across the control deck of one particularly annoying destroyer, which burst like a melon. Varda yearned to join them, but Kezz and his team were still in danger. “Nasty, come help me?”

He nodded, and they both ran from the room.

 

Allura took in the stunning view of the space battle before them and spat a word that made Coran's ears burn. Their destination was right where the star charts said it would be, but it was under attack. Clearly visible were the smoking craters that had been weapons emplacements, the whole south end of the fort was a tumbled mess, and so was the great gaping hole in the center block.

“Are we too late?” Coran gasped.

“No,” Allura snarled, “almost, but not quite. Come to us, O Lions!”

Almost immediately, four great feline shapes sprang upward from the embattled moon, dodging enemy fire and responding with some of their own. The Castle opened its bay doors of its own accord, and the Paladins ran for the mounting chutes without hesitation. Once in the cockpits, they found their armor and bayards neatly arranged on the pilot seats, and they set several speed records getting suited up.

“Everybody ready to go?” Allura said over the comm, exulting at being in the cockpit again.

“Ready!” Keith said, gripping the steering bars hard.

“Ready!” Lance said, feeling the Lion's systems come alive around him.

“Rude!” a squeaky voice came from behind Hunk's seat.

“Um, ready, but there's a velociraptor in here with me.” Hunk said.

“Deal with it later,” Allura snapped. “Launch!”

Hunk did as he was told, and there was an indignant squawk from behind as the sudden forward lurch sent his unexpected passenger tumbling. “What are you doing here, little guy?”

“Am not 'little guy'!” the Nantileer groused. “Am Lon, and am eating lunch. So rude to have interrupted a meal!”

Hunk smiled, even as he directed his Lion back down toward the ruined fortress. “I get that, Lon, but this is kind of an emergency. That smells pretty good, too. What is it?”

“Fried lorsi hoppers,” Lon said, holding up a bag of something that looked like very large deep-fried crickets. “Most crunchy. You want one?”

Hunk would usually try anything at least once, but now was not the time. “Later, maybe. I've gotta go help rescue everybody first. You've got Imperial stormtroopers all over everything down there.”

Lon leaped up onto the back of his seat, crunching crickets in Hunk's ear. “Yellow man is silly. Those are Sentries. Too damn many Galra, oh, yes. Also too many ships! Up! Up!”

Hunk threw his Lion into a series of wild jinks and dodges to avoid enemy fire, Lon clinging tightly to the headrest and back-seat driving all the way. “Up! Down! Left-left-left, do a barrel roll!”

That actually sounded sensible, so he augured in hard, the Nantileer whooping in excitement the whole way down. As he descended he caught the dying flare of a ship exploding and glanced at the rear-view screen; Zaianne and Modhri must have taken the helms of the support ships, for they were flying interference, giving the Paladins what cover they could on their way down to the moon. Taken by surprise, the Galra ships struggled to respond, but were unable to do so effectively. Not with their boss and a whole lot of treasure down below, Hunk knew. Lotor had probably given them orders to stay put and prevent any escapees from getting away, too.

“ _There isn't enough room for the Lions inside the Fortress,”_ he heard Coran say, _“You'll want to set them down atop the east wall, which is still stable enough to hold their weight while still being close enough to that breach. We'll keep anyone from trying to steal your Lions again, but make it quick! Find Pidge and get her and her Lion out here so that Voltron can show these vandals who's boss.”_

“ _On it!”_ Keith shouted back.

“Yay!” Lon hooted.

“ _Hunk, do you still have that Nantileer?”_ Allura asked suspiciously.

Hunk snickered. “Kinda, yeah. He brought snacks. Lon, you know more about that fort than we do, and we're gonna need a guide. Want to be a hero for a little while?”

Lon bounced up and down excitedly. “Yes! Lon is a hero! Wants a cape. Can't be a proper hero without a cape.”

“ _Told you so, Hunk,”_ Lance said.

Hunk ignored him. “You can use my shirt. Best I've got right now, buddy. Try not to lose it, okay? It's the only one I've got.”

Lon hopped down, vanishing for a moment behind the pilot's seat, allowing Hunk a moment's peace in which to park his Lion. The red and black Lions dropped down on either side of him, Lance taking a moment to run his Lion's ice ray a few times around the breach to slow down any pursuit. When they dismounted, the others stared at the Nantileer riding on Hunk's shoulder, his shirtsleeves knotted loosely around its neck.

“Hunk, there's a velociraptor on your shoulder,” Keith observed.

Hunk grinned at him. “Yeah. This is the Great Hero Lon, he'll be our faithful native guide today, so let's get going before something stupid happens.”

“I will not disregard any help, no matter how strange,” Allura said, nodding politely at Lon. “Will you lead us to Varda, Lon?”

“Yah, sure,” Lon replied and pointed to the jagged hole in the fort's roof. “First, go down. Move, silly mammals!”

A fighter drone roared overhead, hotly pursued by Zaianne's scout ship. That was enough encouragement for all of them, and they leaped down through the breach without hesitation. It was a long way down, leaping in jetpack-assisted bounds from broken catwalk to broken catwalk, down to the rubble-strewn floor. The enemy was thick down here and attacked immediately; mostly Sentries, but there were a few live soldiers as well. “Which way?” Hunk asked his passenger as the robots closed in.

“Thataway,” Lon replied, pointing off to the left.

“Good enough,” he replied, and cleared the way with his scattergun. “Lead on, Lon, and hurry—we don't have much time.”

Lon hopped down from his shoulder and sped away, the Paladins following close behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we keep saying this, but Spanch and I want to thank everyone who gives us kudos and comments for this story. With this arc starting to reach the end, it's always good to know people are still enjoying the ride, and encourages us to keep going.


	26. Seige-Breakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Short chapter this time, but Spanch and I promise that the next one will be longer. We're getting down to the end of things and will have this arc wrapped up in a few more chapters. Also, we would like to state once more that our Lotor is based off the character from 1984, not the modern version. The modern version has actual brains and something that might just be a conscience. Eighties Lotor was...well, definitely nothing like what we saw in Season 5. (And dammit, I want to believe in Good Guy Lotor, I REALLY do, but I'm a cynic who can't help but feel he's a total Grey Hat under it all.)  
> Anyway, on to the fic! Enjoy!

Chapter 26: Siege-Breakers

 

Kezz was gasping and groaning by the time they had gotten back to the lifts, but he was alive. So were the six other members of his team, even though all of them would need to see Doc, and soon. Nasty, too, who had added a few bruises to his list of minor injuries from having been backhanded across the chest by a robot nearly twice his height. Varda was unhurt thanks to her armor and her native agility, but she was furious. Using her more unusual talents on those things would have been worse than useless—all of them carried that ice-shield virus—so she had been forced to do things the hard way. It didn't help her temper that they were being pursued, although the booby traps were slowing the enemy down a little.

Yantilee met them in the control center, which had gone dim; something had damaged the power leads to this room, and the already bluish lights had darkened to a definite azure. The Captain helped the wounded onto the lift and raised his head. “Osric, is that everyone?”

“ _Not quite,”_ the ghostly voice said. _“Lon is still in the fort.”_

Varda spat a curse. “Lon? I thought he was below, helping run cable!”

“ _Not anymore.”_ Osric replied. _“He's coming toward you now.”_

“That's a help,” Yantilee said. “Few things can catch a Nantileer at speed, and—oops. That's not Lon.”

Varda heard it too—the clatter of a very large group of Sentries was unmistakable. Yantilee pulled Varda back into the control room and shut the door to the lifts; whatever happened to them, the Galra could not be allowed to descend. They were just in time, for a squad of Sentries was pouring into the room, guns trained upon them. Striding into their midst came their commander, golden eyes flashing with excitement, the quality of his armor bespeaking his rank. Under the bluish lighting the subtler details were lost, although it gave him a very nice cobalt complexion. “Halt, aliens!” he declared, leveling his sword at them. “Surrender! We have taken this fortress, and you are defeated.”

Varda stared at the proud young man. “Yantilee, is that the Prince?”

Yantilee gave her a puzzled glance out of one side eye. “Yes, that's him.”

“You sure?”

Yantilee nodded. “Yup. I've been seeing his picture all over the news for months now.”

Varda rubbed tiredly at her eyes and glared at the Galra. “Hey, you, you're really Lotor?”

Lotor also gave her a puzzled glance. He was used to seeing fear in his victims, not exasperation. “I am.”

“Wonderful,” she growled irritably. “This just takes the cake. Yantilee, for the last six months, we've been menaced by Elfy McSmurflord.”

Neither Yantilee nor Lotor knew what to make of that statement, but her tone of voice suggested that she was deeply unimpressed with their royal visitor. Lotor scowled, but before he could speak, a new voice shouted, “Whoo! Nice one, Pidge!”

“What--!” Lotor said, and then was forced to leap aside as bright blasts from an energy weapon blew several Sentries to pieces.

“Guys!” Varda said, at once apprehensive and mysteriously elated to see the Paladins rush in. “You came back!”

“Kind of had to,” Hunk said. “You still had our Lions. Huh. He does look like a Blue Meanie version of Legolas, doesn't he?”

“Paladins!” Lotor barked, aware that he was being insulted, but not at all sure of the context. “You face your doom here!”

They ignored his words, but not his face. Lance nudged Allura. “You're right though, Princess, he does look a little like Keith. Same grumpy-face.”

“No way!” Keith protested. “I was never that prissy-looking. And you think _I've_ got a mullet, Lance? Look at his hair!”

“Must take after his Mom,” Hunk observed. “He sure doesn't look a thing like his Dad.”

Keith made a face. “At least my Mom's got standards. I mean, would _you_ hop into bed with Zarkon? _Ugggghhh!”_

Allura heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I really can't take them anywhere.”

Lotor had never been mocked like this in his life. Even his brothers had learned to hold their tongues around him very early on in their lives. He also hadn't expected the Paladins to behave like a pack of schoolkids instead of the hard-bitten criminals he'd heard so much about. “Enough of this foolishness!” He snarled, trying to instill a little fear into them. “Face me in battle, Paladins, that I may defeat you properly, and bring you back in chains as a gift to my Father.”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Varda groaned. “I'm getting a headache here. Ow. Tell Haggar from me that she's a first-class, double-barreled _tushwhomp gnar-flaxxis.”_

Yantilee chuckled. “And shame on Nasty for teaching you that sort of language. All banter aside, Paladins, we've got an evil prince here, and the army he rode in on. Do you want the prince or the army?”

Lotor was aware that the situation was rapidly getting away from him, and that the usual tactics weren't working. “What?”

Something small, blue-green, and wearing a yellow cape bounded clear over his head, bounced again, and came to perch on the yellow Paladin's shoulder. “Oooh! Pick army!” it squeaked, “Pick army! Much smashings and crashings, and Yantilee flattens Princey Prancy-Pants!”

The blue Paladin gave Lotor an appraising look while the others snickered. “Hmmm, nah. He's gone to all this trouble to challenge us personally, so we'll give him a go. You okay with taking on the Sentries, Captain?”

The huge Elikonian shrugged massive shoulders and cracked his knuckles with a sound like branches breaking. “Sure. Varda, get some distance. Ten seconds until I rage.”

Varda, whose head really was starting to ache again, forgot her pains in the wake of that warning. “Whoops. Come on, everybody, you heard the Captain, get out of the way right now! Hey Lon, Dwesk's going to be mad at you for sneaking off again. Lotor, move your butt! Charging rhinos always win!”

Lotor didn't have time to ask what that meant before an ear-shattering bellow of pure wrath sounded right behind him, and he was forced to throw himself out of the way as a ton of phenomenally angry pseudo-saurian charged the Sentries. “Wow,” he heard one of the Paladins say as robot parts began to bounce off of the walls and ceiling.

“He's been under a lot of stress lately,” the green one said, and Lotor had to duck away again as the emerald hook of a bayard hissed past his nose. “And it's all this twerp's fault. Hey, Smurfy, are you going to fight us or what?”

Lotor had had enough of this. He let out a roar of his own and lunged at the lesser foes, sword hissing through the air like an angry serpent. This was met handily by the red Paladin, also a swordsman and not totally unskilled, but Lotor was better. He might have had the red one bang to rights, but a whiplash smacked against his side, knocking him off-balance long enough for the red Paladin to disengage. Lotor suddenly had his hands full with fending off the whip-man—no, _whip-woman,_ and was surprised to find himself facing the same young lady who had nearly gutted him with her thumbnails not so long ago. He was taller than she was, and faster, and might have landed a hit, but something struck his left knee and sent a hideous electric shock through him that made his teeth buzz. He rounded on the smallest Paladin with a hiss of fury; she and her teammates whirled away, leaving the field clear for the two gunners to bring their bayards to bear. Lotor sprang as the blue one fired, leaping over the bolt and knocking him down, and was knocked aside in turn by the yellow one. He rolled, sprang to his feet, and there was the red one again.

It had been a long time since he'd faced a challenge like this one, outnumbered and alone against foes that were almost, but not quite good enough to defeat him. He was holding his own and even enjoying himself, and thus he might be forgiven for forgetting that they weren't the only enemy combatants in the room. Five minutes had passed without any of them noticing, much less them noticing that Lotor no longer had any Sentries to back him up. Yantilee's rage had passed, and he had regained much of his normal composure. The Elikonian still had enough annoyance left for one more tail-strike, however, and landed one square in the middle of Lotor's back that slammed him hard enough into a wall to stun him.

Lance objected to this interruption, even though he was out of breath himself. “Aw, Captain, we were just starting to get the hang of this guy! No fair butting in.”

“We are done here,” Yantilee replied sternly. “The Stronghold's in ruins, the ship is repaired, and it's time to regroup with the Fleet. Better yet, we've got ourselves a bargaining chip.” He reached down and gripped Lotor's shoulder, pulling the dazed Prince upright. “This fool boy will serve as a dandy hostage for the time being, at least until his father disowns him for being a disappointment. After that, I think that I'll sell him to the highest bidder. Let him experience firsthand how a slave must live... unless the Talssenemai gets there first.”

_That_ shocked Lotor out of his daze.  _“No!”_ he snarled, pulling a dagger from his belt and stabbing Yantilee through the wrist; he cursed and let go, allowing the Galra to spring away, snatching up a fallen blaster and shooting wildly at his foes, who were forced to dodge until the blue Paladin shot the weapon out of his hands. Lotor sprinted for the one open door, pausing long enough to say, “You will regret those words, Elikonian! I no longer need to keep your miserable base or your ship intact. I will blast you all to vapor!” 

So saying, he yanked something small and dark from his belt, dropped it in the doorway, and sprinted away.

“Grenade!” Yantilee ground out, clutching at his wounded arm.

As one, the Paladins clustered around him, activating their shields. Yantilee grabbed Lon off of Hunk's shoulder and crouched down on the floorplates, a pair of hands over his ears. The grenade went off with a shattering report; the Paladins' shields were just strong enough to turn the worst of the blast, but it brought down the doorframe and part of the hall outside.

“Jerk,” Keith said, and coughed.

“My fault,” Yantilee admitted, pulling the dagger out of his arm and tossing it aside. “Wasn't thinking clearly and broke one of my own rules: make sure the prisoner is secured, _then_ gloat. Ouch.”

“You're hurt!” Varda said, still trying to push aside the headache that was starting to spread down her spine. “Is it serious?”

“No. Flesh wound. It hurts, but I'll live.” Yantilee sighed and glared at the wreckage blocking the hall. “I've still got three good arms. First, though--”

Yantilee reached over to the control board and tapped the comm. “Status?”

“ _All done and spaceworthy, Captain, we're just waiting for you and Varda,”_ Haswick replied. _“Our new friends out there are really upsetting the enemy, for all that there's so few of them. Should I open the back doors now?”_

“Go ahead, we'll be down in a minute or two,” Yantilee replied, then headed for the ruined door. “Help me get this debris out of the way, kids. The fight's not over yet.”

They fell to immediately, although Varda was forced to hang back with Lon; every time she got too close to the others, her head pulsed with blinding pain. She could feel Shechethra screaming in fury at the other voice that Haggar had planted in her, and each dry roar and reverberating bellow from the pair of them were excruciating. She was trying to push it aside and wishing heartily for one of Doc's little magic pills when Keith appeared before her, hand outstretched. “I think that I can help with that,” he said.

She recoiled from his touch, remembering what had happened last time. Before she could tell him where to stick that hand, the floor shook beneath their feet, and there was a distant _boom. “Captain!”_ Haswick cried, _“They've spotted the doors, and one of the big destroyers shot out the mechanism. The doors are jammed—we can't get out!”_

Yantilee muttered a curse.

“ _Quiznek,”_ Lance growled. “All right, we've really got to go, now. Pidge—ah, Varda, we need the green Lion out there with us so we can Voltron those guys until they go away. It's sort of do or die this time.”

Varda blinked at him. “But I don't know how to form Voltron!”

Hunk heaved one last chunk of wreckage aside with a grunt. “Your Lion will tell you how. It's instinctive. After that... well, just trust us.”

Allura nodded gravely. “If you don't, all of your friends here will die.”

Varda groaned, more at the noise in her head than at anything else. “All right, all right! Shechethra's down in the  _Quandary._ I'll meet you outside.”

“Good,” Keith said. “Let's go!”

 

Varda was in something of a mood by the time she'd gotten out into free space. Having to bully her Captain into getting that arm treated hadn't been easy, but with Lon nipping at his heels, Yantilee hadn't had much choice. She could only be thankful that Dwesk hadn't found them before they'd gotten to the clinic; apparently, that bag of lorsi hoppers had been stolen from the matriarch's private stash, and she laid into him with fists, feet, and fangs. Varda had, at Doc's request, poured a bucket of water over the pair of them before sprinting to the docking bay.

The headache was easier to bear now, thankfully. Something about being safely ensconced in Shechethra's cockpit muffled the other voice somewhat, although its snarling still grated across her nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. Still, it felt good to fly again. The others were waiting for her, chasing fighter drones and harassing cruisers, and she leaned back in her seat, listening to their welcoming calls and wondering how she was going to do this. Every time one of them spoke, it sent a jagged feeling down her spine. She could feel Shechethra trying to ease that, and to tell her something very important, but the other voice was screeching like a disaster siren and drowning her out.

“Okay, Pidge,” Lance shouted, the excitement in his voice sending another crackle of static down her backbone, “we've gotta form Voltron. Listen to your Lion and work with us, okay?”

“I can't!” Varda groaned. “I can't hear her! Something's screaming in my head! Every time I try to get close to you, it gets worse!”

The others heard the pain in her voice. “Dammit, that's Haggar's hex, isn't it?” Keith growled. “How am I supposed to do anything about it from here?”

Something occurred to Allura. “Lizenne said that the curse was supposed to affect our bonds with the Lions and each other. Varda, you are bonded to us through the Lions—can you feel it?”

“No,” Varda admitted, blasting a fighter drone that had gotten too close. “I can't feel any of you. Every time I try, my head tries to explode.”

“Keith, can you feel Varda?” Allura asked.

The red Lion dodged a bolt from one of the cruisers and returned fire, slagging the gunports. “Sort of. I know she's there, but there's... there's all this stuff in the way. I think that I can burn it off, but it'll take more energy than I can spare, even with Red's help.”

“You managed okay with Kelezar,” Lance said, flash-freezing a string of fighters.

“I actually had my hands on him, and it nearly killed me,” Keith shot back. “This is different!”

“Guys, cool it,” Hunk scolded. “You're all forgetting something important. We are of the pack, remember?”

Those words struck a chord somewhere deep inside Varda's mind. She remembered a soothing voice, and standing in the dark while feeling her brothers standing close around her. “The pack is as one,” she whispered, and for just a second, felt them all around her again.

The hexes set into her flared hard enough to bring a cry of pain out of her, but the others were mightily encouraged. “Hey, I felt that! Just for a second, you came clear! Do that again!”

“I can't!” she cried, “It hurts too much!”

“You have to,” Allura pleaded, “we can work through the bond, but only if it is intact. We can help you, but you must trust us. We must form Voltron!”

“And we've got to do it now, guys,” Hunk said, drawing their attention elsewhere. “Look at the flagship! All the smaller ships are getting out of its way, and it looks like they're starting to warm up that big cannon!”

Varda groaned, but they were right. Everybody below in the _Quandary_ was depending on them. “All right, but make it quick!”

“All right,” Keith replied, sounding a little breathless. “One more time. _We are of the pack.”_

Varda braced herself against what was coming, answering along with the others, _“And the pack is as one.”_

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Colors and sensations at once alien and intimate flooded her mind, and she felt the Lions—all five—boosting the connection. The parasite voice in her mind screamed and tried to break it, but fire licked from the heart of a sun, drawing strength from golden stone and form from a powerful will, and Varda recognized the shape of it. This was a variation on her own Spike of Hantis, and she suddenly understood. The voice in her head was also a variation—this one on the aetheric shielding that Lotor's ships bore! Furious, she seized upon the filthy thing and slowed its horrible screeching, revealing the one weak spot where the Spike had to hit. It burned, like laying bare hands on an overheated engine, but she held it while her pack drove the needle home. She felt the hex fly apart in an explosion of razor edges, but had no time to cry out before a wash of cool blue effulgence swept through her, banishing the pain and mending the damage. She felt herself bloom, a hot bright emerald, tinged at the heart with violet; not completely cured, but enough to do the job.

“ _Form Voltron!”_ someone shouted in the distance, and suddenly she simply _knew_ exactly how to do that.

Five hearts as one, the Lions joined together to form a legend.

 

Lotor was in a seething rage, an emotional state only exacerbated by the three lines of stinging scratches all down the center of his back; he could smell his own blood as it trickled down his spine. The Elikonian's tail spikes had gone right through the best body armor that the military could provide, and the fact that he had very narrowly avoided something a thousand times worse did not improve his mood. Him, a hostage? A slave? A new pelt in the  _Night Terror's_ collection? His blood had been boiling in outrage at those very words the whole way back, and it had not helped to see four of the Lions sitting so nearly within reach on the fortress's roof, and yet as untouchable as the surface of a star. The crowning insult had come when a small fighter craft had roared out of the sky right on top of his head, forcing him to run for the nearest troop lander or be blown to pieces. His Father would not be pleased if he damaged the Lions, but he was beyond caring. Just as Haggar had promised, the five Lions were whirling uselessly around a few  _tilsecs_ away, unable to pose a real threat to the fleet, and he intended to deal with the pirates first. Their captain had struck him, had laid hands on him, had drawn blood on him, and worst of all, had frightened him, and he could never forgive or forget that, much less let it go unpunished.

“Highness, the Lions--” Lieutenant Tilwass said uneasily as Lotor thumped down in his chair in the bridge. “Highness! Your armor!”

“Ignore them,” Lotor snapped, “we will deal with the Paladins shortly. They cannot form Voltron. Ready the primary ion cannon and blow that moon to pieces. Do it, man!”

Tilwass shouted the necessary commands, ordering the fleet to make room and focus instead on keeping the Lions away from the Flagship. They'd managed to beat off the two support ships and their evil little fighter pilot, but the three of them were still visible in the long 'scopes, waiting for an opening in which to strike again. A deep thrum ran through the Flagship as enormous amounts of power were diverted from the ship's core, bringing the massive main cannon, one of the biggest in the Empire aside from the planet-busters, up to full charge. It was, out of necessity, a slow process. The alloy simply didn't exist that could transfer that much energy from one place to another instantly without exploding violently enough to vaporize half of the ship, but Lotor obviously wanted a blast at full power and felt himself able to wait the minute or two it took to build up a full charge. Tilwass didn't like that much. The problem with the main ion cannon was that it could only be safely used when the ship itself was well-protected by the other ships of the fleet; the power core simply couldn't run the shields and the cannon at the same time without a fatal overload. There were just enough heavy destroyers left to pull it off if nothing unexpected happened.

The cannon was just a half-minute away from being ready to fire when a burst of polychrome light nearly blinded them. Lotor and his command crew watched in horrified disbelief as five distant Lions assembled into one very large robot, and as that robot drew a sword out of raw firmament. Golden optics in a stern metal face lifted to focus on the flagship, and Lotor had the horrible feeling that it was looking directly at him. There was a blue flare as its thrusters engaged, and it charged.

“Target Voltron!” he shouted, the pirates suddenly seeming insignificant in the face of that five-colored menace. “Target Voltron now! Blast it to pieces!”

It was already too late.

No living person knew exactly what powered that mighty gestalt engine, or how such an oddly-shaped thing could move with such speed or precision, or where the dividing line between machine and pilot actually lay. The blazing sword flashed and flickered as it approached the Flagship and lesser ships were sundered in its wake. Half-sunk in the exaltation of being a part of that unique apparatus, Varda heard her belt-comm only dimly, although she smiled at its message. One of the ships that had come to pieces behind them was the one that had been jamming the comm channels, and Yantilee's booming voice sang out into the cosmos.

“ _Plan 3 is canceled; I repeat, Plan 3 is canceled. We are mended, my haunts—if any of you are ready as well, here are our coordinates. We could use a bit of extra help out here. If you're listening, Talssenemai, yes, he's back.”_

Lotor heard that message too, and leaped furiously out of his chair, shoving aside his gunnery control officer and hammering on the firing switch. The main ion cannon responded instantly, spitting a vast purple-white beam that sent several more of his own ships spiraling helplessly aside, badly damaged; Voltron saw it coming and executed a graceful barrel roll, ducking under— _under!—_ the beam and into a quick circuit of the cannon's rotator ring, the sword slicing into the tough metal with ease. Power leads slashed, the cannon popped out of its mountings like a cork from a wine bottle, the robot whizzing away into space before the lesser cannons could draw a bead on it. Lotor was about to demand that they go after it when a sound that had haunted his nightmares for several months now howled over the comms—the happy-banshee shriek of a Hoshinthra Warleader.

The great black ship was just suddenly _there,_ showing a shadowy reflection of Lotor's own along its hull, it was that close, and two more ion cannons were lost before the frantic deck crew were able to bring the shields back up. Other ships were emerging out of the blackness of space now, and the Paladins' two support ships were back as well. Lotor bared his teeth at the screens, but the odds were not good; he'd lost too many ships and was losing more by the second, his own craft was badly damaged, and if the _Quandary_ was freed, they were in real trouble. He had a brief, horrible vision of his ship being boarded and himself captured, a thing against which his whole nature revolted.

“Retreat!” he commanded, “All ships still capable of hyper, fall back to Sampax Tetra. Retreat!”

Tilwass gasped and turned to stare at him. “Highness, the survivors--”

“Leave them,” Lotor snarled. “If they were not competent enough to preserve their ships, then they deserve whatever the pirates will do to them. Retreat, I said!”

Tilwass would have liked to argue that no few of them had been rendered helpless by the Prince's own rash decisions, but he was too much of a survivor to do so. The Prince looked about ready to kill someone, and that someone was not going to be him, thank you very much. He would, however, make a very full report to General Pendrash at the first opportunity. “Yes, your Highness,” he said, and gave the necessary orders.

 

There were cheers above and below as the more intact ships in the fleet changed their vectors and fled, although they didn't go alone. The _Night Terror_ was as determined to catch the prize as always, and pursued. This was just as well; few of those left behind were willing to have to deal with the Hoshinthra on top of everything else. Yantilee gave them a few minutes to get it out of their systems before getting on the comms again.

“ _That was a battle well-fought, and help gladly received,”_ Yantilee told them, although Varda frowned at the weariness in his voice. _“Unfortunately, it's time for the cleanup. Paladins, I'd be grateful if you were to unstick the doors down here, although we're no longer in a hurry to move; the Stronghold is broken, and we need to salvage what we can and tend to the wounded before we leave here. Ghost Fleet ships, I'm glad to see you and would welcome any help that you're willing to give... and_ yes, _you are allowed to salvage anything of worth from the wreckage. That goes for my crew as well, so be quick about it. The one thing that I will ask of you is to let me have any survivors from those wrecks; the_ Quandary's _the only ship among our own that is large enough to hold that many. If that mad Hoshinthra doesn't catch the Prince,_ she will come back. _She'll probably be back anyway, and I will not have that many needless deaths on my conscience.”_

That caused many a shudder among the listeners, word of the Talssenemai's collection having gotten around, and the Paladins were no different. “Come on, guys,” Varda said, tired but not in pain, amazingly enough, “let's get those doors loose, and then we're going to go and help the salvage-and-capture teams. It's important.”

“Yeah,” Lance sighed, and then brightened up a little. “Does that mean that we get to loot the wrecks, too?”

“Lance...” Allura said warningly.

“A little,” Varda said, “but you're probably better off not bothering. The smaller ships don't often have anything worth taking, and the pirates are better at looting than you are. You're going to want to hook up with the capture teams, anyway. There are going to be a lot of hurt and scared people on those wrecks, and Galra soldiers usually attack when they're upset.”

“You sound like you've done this before,” Keith observed.

“Yeah, a lot of times,” Varda replied casually. “Tell you what, I'll hook you up with Varis, he'll be able to show you how it's done. And be polite to him, okay? He's the big blue guy who knocked you cold with the stun cannon a couple of weeks ago.”

“And we don't want him doing that again,” Hunk said agreeably as Voltron approached their target, a huge vertical slit in one side of the moon. “Gotcha. Okay, doors first. Wow. Those are some big doors. Hey, Coran, did that old fort used to have doors like that?”

“ _No, although I rather wish that they had,”_ the tantalizingly familiar voice of someone Varda could almost remember knowing came through Shechethra's comm. _“Hiding a ship within a moon like that is a lovely idea, purely lovely! Must've been a later addition, although I hate to think of how much work it took to hollow the thing out. The_ Quandary _isn't exactly a mini-yacht, you know.”_

“ _It's not all that hard to do if you've stolen a few industrial disintegrators,”_ a woman's voice, equally familiar, said knowledgeably. _“They were commonly used in mining camps up until about six years ago. Steal the keys to one of those, and you can have all kinds of fun undermining things. The small handheld ones are good for sabotage, safecracking, and the occasional assassination. I'll show you how to improvise one later, Khaeth, since they aren't made anymore.”_

The first voice said rather stiffly, _“You are corrupting the nation's youth, I'll have you know.”_

“ _Yes. It makes life more interesting for those who don't deserve boredom.”_

“ _Madame!”_

Keith laughed. “Sounds awesome, Mom. I'll look forward to it. Or maybe you could give us a lesson now—this mechanism is seriously messed up. Hunk, can you do anything about this?”

“Oh, hey, yeah, sure,” Hunk replied confidently. “It's big, but it's simple. Just give me a little boost, guys...”

Moving as one, the great robot was directed to lay a “hand” on the ruined mechanism, and there were awed comments from all as slagged metal reshaped itself, jammed parts became mobile, and power leads mended themselves. Within only a few minutes, the enormous doors slid smoothly shut again. The miracle did not come without a price, of course; sharing enough strength with Hunk to get the job done had made Varda very hungry, and she attacked the packet of emergency dry rations and beverage packets that she'd squirreled away in a secret compartment in Shechethra's cockpit. From the sound of it, the others were doing the same. When she could think of anything besides lunch again, she contacted Varis, who was already hard at work in one of the wrecks.

“ _Sure, we could use the help,”_ Varis said calmly over someone's shouted obscenities. _“Have any of 'em ever done this sort of thing before?”_

Varda relayed that question to the others, who replied that they hadn't. “Nope. Never had the opportunity.”

“ _Okay, no bad habits to unlearn, then. Bring 'em over.”_ Varis paused; there was a grunt and a scraping sound, and a faint _ouch._ _“We're in what's left of that destroyer that Lotor blew the back end off of. Still has that funny-looking projection under the bow, and all three cannons.”_

“I see you. We'll be there soon. Did you get hurt?” Varda asked.

“ _Nah. The little darling that I'm securing now just bit me. 'S okay. Those little fangs of his can't get through my hide, but unless he wants to have to go and buy new ones... good boy. We're on the third deck amidships now, and if you ain't got a capture kit, I've an extra.”_

“No, I've still got mine,” Varda said. “We'll be there soon.”

She heard Allura hum thoughtfully. “Setting us up for marauding lessons, Varda?”

“Sort of,” Varda stretched and rested her hands on the control beams. “Disengage, people. All the big hero-ing is done for the day, and we need to deal with the aftermath now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are what causes our skin to be clear, our crops to be watered, and our minds to reach enlightenment. Whether you're reading all our insane ramblings for the first time or re-reading it again for enjoyment (OMG people are actually liking this enough to re-read *mind explodes*) please let us know your thoughts. We love hearing from you all and the encouragement is what makes all this worthwhile.


	27. Cleanup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early because my work schedule for this coming week is a nightmare. I will spend the one free day I have asleep and doing all the chores work will not allow me to do. At the same time, if I can manage it. >.<

Chapter 27: Cleanup

 

The next several hours were spent hopping from broken ship to broken ship, scanning for lifesigns and rescuing those who could be rescued. Most of the surviving soldiers were too demoralized by their abandonment to put up much of a fight, thankfully, although the officers were often more troublesome. Dealing with the wounded was the worst; Varda wasn't sure which were harder to deal with, the ones who tried to be brave or the ones who went limp and didn't care who saw them cry. No few of them had lost extremities or had suffered serious burns, and Varda was very glad that she'd taken the time to learn first aid from Doc. Still, she carried on, knowing full well that she was doing the right thing. Finally, she reached the last derelict in the section of the battlefield that had been assigned to her, a tumbling mass of scrap that had once been part of a light cruiser. According to Shechethra's scanners, there were a few live ones still in there—the power core and support systems were still intact enough to maintain gravity and atmosphere inside most of the wreck. She glanced back at the small area behind her seat and judged that she could fit that many if they didn't mind being a little cramped. On the other hand, there was also a working lifepod in the one intact bay; if she could just get them to that, the rest of the capture crews could take them from there. Varda reported her findings, directed her Lion into the bay, and dismounted.

She gave the pod a quick look; it was a little banged up from having its ship destroyed around it, but it was still functional. Satisfied, Varda went to look for the survivors. This was tricky in spots; she'd been given the section that had suffered worst from the blast that Lotor had fired at Voltron, and a great deal of the ship was either slagged or simply gone. Whoever had designed the poor old thing had included a great many emergency hatches and lifts with their own independent mechanisms and power sources, but the sheer scale of the damage had ruined most of them. Idly, Varda wondered why the old heroic legends that she'd heard from the crew had never mentioned this sort of thing. The heroes were always portrayed at their best and bravest, of course, but not one of those tales had ever mentioned them going back and helping with the cleanup. _Probably because they'd quit and never go adventuring again if they saw what they had done,_ she thought. When you got right down to it, the difference between a great hero and a mass murderer was a matter of opinion. _It's a good thing that I'm a pirate,_ she said to herself, _at least we're honest about our work._

A groan disturbed her thoughts, and she turned quickly to stare at a pile of wreckage at an intersection where a wall had collapsed. Half-buried under the pile was an armored figure, struggling feebly to free himself. “Hello?” he said in a shaken voice, sounding very young. “Help?”

“Hold still,” she told him, hurrying over to help. “Let me get some of this stuff off of you. Are you hurt?”

“Um,” he said dazedly. “I don't know. I hurt all over, but I'm not bleeding. Wait... that voice... the green Paladin. Varda?”

Varda blinked, and then pulled off his helmet, revealing a familiar face. _“Tamzet?_ What are you doing here?”

“Lotor came back to Orpaxus, looking to resupply again,” Tamzet said in a strained voice as Varda began hauling chunks of broken metal off of him. “He took everything. All the spare supplies, every single training ship, and the whole undergraduate class. I wasn't captain this time, though. They gave me and some others to Captain Jankoros. Is he still alive?”

“I don't know,” she admitted, heaving a big piece of wallplate aside. “This is only the back half of the ship. The command deck is somewhere else. Lotor has lousy aim when he's upset.”

Tamzet sighed and tried to get up again, only to have her push him back down. “Yeah, he does, and he isn't very good at controlling his temper. I think—hey!”

Varda had pulled his arms behind his back and secured them with a pair of cuffs. “Cool it. You're being rescued, but you're still my prisoner, and this is for your own protection.”

“Protection?” he asked indignantly, pulling at the restraints.

Varda knocked her knuckles on his backplate and set about getting the last of the wreckage off of his legs. “Yeah, protection. You guys have been trying to kill us for months now, and if I take you back to the _Quandary_ without those on, somebody is going to get the wrong idea. It's all right, nobody's going to hurt you if you behave yourself.”

Tamzet grunted sourly and struggled awkwardly to his knees. “All right, but what--”

He froze, staring in horror at something at the other end of the hall. A series of sharp clacking sounds made Varda look up, and she joined her prisoner in being one of only a very few people who had ever seen a Hoshinthra Warrior without its veils and lived to tell about it.

The resemblance to an Earthly moose was superficial at best; no member of the deer family had ever looked anything like the creature striding smoothly down the hall toward them. If they had, the wolves would have sworn off meat and evolved into birds eons ago. Four glittering black moth antennae turned and twisted above a head that did indeed resemble the eyeless skull of a horse, although the teeth were that of an allosaur's. The neck and tail belonged on a venomous snake, the long, lean body was as supple as a weasel's, and a dozen long, muscular arms lay folded up above the shoulders. The greenish lights that she had seen under the veils earlier were now revealed to be coiled-up, phosphorescent, insect-like things clinging to its flanks, a little like dragonflies but with bodies as big as her fist, and she could not say whether those were symbiotic creatures or part of the Hoshinthra itself. The whole creature was clad in leaf-shaped, almost thornlike scales, much like those of an African bush viper, but they were pale-gray and mirror-finished so that it glittered strangely when it walked, making it very difficult to focus her eyes on. The scales reflected the dim light so well, she realized, that it was pixelating itself out of her ability to see it clearly. She remembered the terrible feeling of being _watched_ aboard the _Night Terror,_ and of touching something that hadn't been there. Sure enough, a glance at its ankles revealed the scales there to be broader and flatter than those higher on the legs. The crewmen _had_ been all around them the whole time, she realized, unseen, but just waiting to strike if she or the Nantileeri had done anything that they hadn't liked.

Varda swallowed hard, and she felt Tamzet huddle against her leg, and heard him whimper in terror.

She would learn later that the Hoshinthra wore veils in mixed company not out of cultural ideals or some idea of species purity, but out of courtesy—it was very difficult to talk civilly with a nightmare creature that kept blurring in and out of visibility like that.

The Hoshinthra... well, “spotted” them wasn't the right word. It certainly perceived them, and approached with its head twisting this way and that on its long supple neck, antennae flexing and fanning out to best utilize whatever senses they contained. _“It is the bold spawnling,”_ she heard it say in the usual echoing whisper. _“The Talssenemai speaks through this person and greets you.”_

“Yeah, hi,” Varda forced out through a dry throat, fighting down five million years' worth of instincts that really didn't want to be here right now. “Was she able to catch the Prince?”

“ _Alas, no,”_ the Warrior hissed, _“it is an elusive thing and took its followers out of our range. We will take it later, and it will have the honor of a full display case. We observe that the bold one has made a capture of her own. The bold spawnling will enjoy a demonstration of how to take the pelt now, yes?”_

The Hoshinthra extended its arms, displaying the hands. They were six-fingered, she noticed, with a thumb on either side of four fingers, and the upper six hands were nimble-looking, long, and had more joints than Human fingers did. The lower six hands were larger, had shorter fingers, and huge knife-edged claws. _Oh, gods, they split out their prey bare-handed,_ Varda thought, and felt Tamzet shaking in fear.

“No,” she said firmly. “Thank you for your offer, but no.”

The Warrior paused, canting its antennae curiously at her. _“She does not want the pelt? This person will be pleased then to take it in her stead--”_

“ _NO!”_ Varda barked, bringing up her bayard between them. “He's mine, and I want him alive. Back off, doom moose, or--”

“Halt, aliens!” a voice from one side interrupted her, and they turned to see a pair of soldiers at the far end of the righthand passage. “Surrender or be... _oh,_ tajvek, _kill it!”_

Varda dropped to the decking as blaster bolts sang over her head, but the Hoshinthra disregarded the poorly-aimed blasts entirely. It uttered its happy-banshee battlecry and hurled itself toward them, clawlike hooves striking sparks from the floorplates and reflective scales rendering it nearly invisible as it galloped down the hall. The two soldiers screamed and fled, and Varda couldn't blame them. Instead, she grabbed hold of Tamzet's arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Come on, we can't do anything to help them now. There's still a working lifepod in the bay, and we can only hope that they'll get there before it does.”

Tamzet nodded jerkily and followed without complaint as she led him back down to the bay, although he stumbled to a halt and stared upward in glazed terror when Shechethra opened vast fanged jaws to admit them. She had to steer him past the pilot's seat by hand and push him down into a sitting position, he'd frozen up that badly, and he didn't seem to hear her reassurances that he was safe now. Shock, probably, and she didn't blame him; to be honest, her encounter with the Hoshinthra had left her slightly weak in the knees as well. She had just piloted her Lion out of the bay when the lifepod spurted out past her in a frantic rush, only to acquire a pair of escorts from the _Skee Hanno,_ and she smiled to see them take it in hand. A glance to the left revealed the great glossy black hull of the _Night Terror_ hanging above the thickest part of the debris field, transport pods swirling around it as the Talssenemai hunted her favorite prey. Varda shook her head and headed back toward the Stronghold.

“Varda here,” she said, contacting the still-hidden _Quandary._ “I'm done. I've got one captive with me, and Voan Lenna's podcatchers have got the other two. I see that the _Night Terror's_ back.”

“ _Yes, she is,”_ Luddi replied grimly; Haswick must be on break or something. _“She's a great help in a tight spot, but she does demand her toll. It's a good thing that I'm not one of the good guys, or I'd be feeling really rotten about that right now.”_

“We can't save them all,” Varda agreed in a grim voice. “I'm heading in. Are there any special instructions?”

“ _Yes, Miss. Captain says that all prisoners are to be taken to see Doc in the Stronghold's clinic whether they need it or not, and if they don't need immediate care, they're to be taken down to the_ Quandary's _brig, shucked out of their armor, and tucked in for the night.”_

“Heard and understood, Luddi,” Varda replied, noting that the other Lions weren't down yet, although the two big support ships that had come with them were. “What a day it's been, huh?”

Luddi twittered. _“If I ever return home, I shall be able to trade the tale of this day for countless suppers, Miss.”_

Smiling, Varda set her Lion down near the breach in the Stronghold's roof. Someone had taken the time to turn the huge pile of debris that had been the south wall of the main cavern into a steep but navigable ramp, and she led her charge down into the bustle below. It was indeed very busy down here, as her crewmates worked to salvage anything of worth. They were too busy to give her and Tamzet more than a glance as they made their way to the clinic, and that, at least, was an island of relative peace compared to activities elsewhere. It was, however, very full. The large room had escaped the damage that the rest of the old fort had taken, thankfully, but every healpod was occupied, and not all of the occupants were Galra. Dozens of cots stood in long rows, each with a patient resting in drugged slumber upon them, Doc's helpers checking them over for any signs of trouble. And, sadly, a row of still figures wrapped in blue sheets along the far wall, waiting to be transported into cold storage for later funerary rites.

Doc himself was performing a bit of minor surgery with Zoallam assisting, and Varda led Tamzet over in that direction. The patient was someone Tamzet recognized, although he stayed silent. Engineer Dhraas, who had served aboard the same ship as he had, looking after the cruiser's power core and engines as though they had been his own sons. He was a calm, competent fellow and a staunch royalist, and had been very proud to serve in the Prince's own Fleet. He looked utterly crestfallen from the Prince's betrayal and abandonment of his own ships, poor old man, sedated and propped up on a backrest in his underwear while the peculiar-looking medic dealt with a hideous gash in his left arm.

“There now,” the medic was saying soothingly as he lifted a medical device from a tray that the Abyoran held. “That's all of the shrapnel out and the wound nice and clean, and we'll start sealing it up now. Your own medics use this sort of thing all the time, so you don't have to worry. Hello, Varda. Is that the last of them?”

“I think so,” the green Paladin said. “The _Night Terror's_ back and nobody's willing to fight her for her whatever might be left. We'd pretty much gotten them all, anyway. What happened to him?”

Doc clucked disapprovingly. “He was off-shift when you and your friends went out there in your Lions, but came right back on duty when the disaster sirens went off. You, his ship might have evaded, young lady, but the pilots could not dodge the ion blast from the flagship. The power relays for the secondary engine blew when his ship was hit, killing two of his fellow engineers, seriously injuring four more, and slicing his arm open from shoulder to wrist. He's very lucky—no bones were broken and it missed the tendons and the artery, although it filled the wound with these vicious little particles--” he waved a long hand at a bowl full of blood-smeared bits of metal, “--which I believe came mostly from his armor. Had he not taken the time to suit up, he may well have lost both the arm and his life.”

Dhraas moaned faintly, but did not move.

Varda studied the wound curiously. “Nasty. Don't you usually put them under if you're going to sew something like this up?”

“Ordinarily, yes. This fellow, however, has a horror of amputation, and was convinced that I was going to take the whole arm off. As if I would do such a thing!” Doc humphed and drew the sealing device carefully up the gash, closing it up as neatly as a zipper. “So I simply gave him something to keep him quiet and practically soaked the whole arm in my best topical anesthetic. He'll sleep when I'm done. There, now, see? All sealed up, and you should regain full use of the arm in a very short time. We'll just paint that seam with a disinfectant—and _yes,_ it's the same stuff your own medics use, see? And add a dressing to protect it and keep it clean.”

Dhraas heaved a huge sigh as his arm was bandaged up, and Doc stroked the fine fur on his forehead gently. “You have been a very good and very brave man, and I would give you a sweet to suck on, but the Nantileeri stole them all. Silly me for keeping a jar of candied midwi where they could see it.”

Dhraas chuffed and muttered something blurrily, making Doc chuckle. “I could do with a snort too, but it wouldn't play well with the medications I've given you. Tell you what—you concentrate on healing up, and when that arm has mended sufficiently, I will make sure that you get a thimbleful to keep your spirits up and your livers sparkly. Sleep now. Zoallam, if you would please find him a cot?”

With a care and solicitousness that was violently at odds with his villainous appearance, Zoallam lifted the injured Galra and bore him away toward the recovery area, leaving the medic to clean up, which he did with dispatch. “All right, Varda, let's have a look at this young fellow. Any real problems visible?”

Varda shook her head. “Not that I can see. He's had a bad scare, though—I had to face down a Hoshinthra to keep him.”

Doc canted a surprised eye-cluster at her. “And lived, too. Impressive.”

She shrugged. “A couple of others shot at it, and it took off after them. We got lucky.”

“You did indeed. My assistants have just seen to those two. One was intact, although in a blind panic, and the other had a very nice set of lacerations on one shoulder. This boy--” he pulled his scanner out of a pocket and ran it over Tamzet for a moment, “--is luckier still, for he has nothing worse than a few bruises and a mild case of shock. His armor took the worst of it. Therefore...”

Doc dropped the scanner back into his pocket, then dipped a hand into a large jar and pulled out a small yellowish pill. Lightning-fast, his free hand shot out and seized Tamzet's lower jaw, forcing his mouth open. In one smooth move, he flicked the pill into the back of the young Galra's throat and dragged his fingernails firmly over the adam's apple, forcing him to swallow. Tamzet struggled frantically to free himself, but Doc's grip was like iron; Varda knew that from personal experience.

“Was that really necessary?” she asked sharply.

Doc gestured an affirmative. “Captain's orders. We have very nearly more prisoners than we have crewmen to watch them, and it only takes one escapee to ruin everyone's day. Thus, they must not be able even to consider a jailbreak. This stuff is harmless, nonaddictive, and will make him compliant for a full thirty-two hours, by which time he will have learned that we aren't interested in hurting him. Ah. There we go.”

Tamzet had stopped struggling, and his eyes had taken on a dreaming look. Doc let go of his face and said, “Do you consider yourself to be an honorable young man?”

“I try, sir,” Tamzet said mistily, relaxing visibly as the drug took effect.

Doc nodded. “Very good. Despite the mad antics of your commander-in-chief, this young lady has gone to considerable trouble and risk to save your life. You owe her your cooperation at the very least.”

Tamzet glanced in Varda's direction and bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You will follow where she leads and do as she tells you. If she has questions, you must answer clearly and correctly. You will not waste time on worrying whether you are divulging secrets to an enemy, for she is not your enemy. She, after all, did not abandon you and your crewmates to die. Am I understood, young man?”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Tamzet said quietly. “Will we be okay?”

Doc hummed thoughtfully. “The Captain is not a cruel person, even when sorely pressed. She knows very well who to blame for our misfortunes, and she does not waste effort on punishing those who had no choice but to follow their orders. I shudder to think of what will happen if she should get her hands on that pretty idiot of a Prince, however. Varda, kindly take this poor fellow down to see if Varis has a vacant seat for him. I have to check on the healpods now.”

Varda nodded and led Tamzet away.

He followed along tamely enough, relying on her to keep him pointed in the right direction. It was an improvement over his previous wooden movements and helpless terror, even though she really didn't approve of the method. “How are you feeling?” she asked him as they boarded the lift that would take them down to the ship.

“Calm,” he replied quietly. “Very, very calm. It feels nice. I haven't really been able to relax in weeks.”

“Not really cut out for the military life, are you?” Varda asked.

“No.” Tamzet looked down curiously at the huge hull that they were descending toward. “My family has been starship pilots and captains since the beginning of spaceflight, and my Aunt wants to continue that tradition. Military's got the best benefits package, so she sent me to Orpaxus Academy. I'm a good pilot, but being in command of the whole ship scares me.”

Varda glanced up at him quizzically. “That's not what I saw a few months ago.”

He shrugged. “I'm good at faking it. I wanted to go into the Mercantile Corps, but Aunt Minelar said no, and once she's made up her mind, that's it. Weirdly enough, she was worried about losing me to pirates.”

“Oops,” Varda giggled.

The lift set them down easily into one of the upper-deck staterooms, and she traded salutes with the crewman on watch there before heading down to the brig. It was a long walk but a quiet one, with most of the activity taking place around the main storerooms. Varda had to stop and stare when they got to the brig, though.

Sikkhorans, while they liked having a lot of room to move around in, felt that big empty unused spaces were indecent. There were several areas in the ship where sliding partitions could be extended or retracted into the walls to enlarge or shrink a room where necessary, but she hadn't known that the brig was one of those. The last time she'd been in that room there had been four cells, each large enough to hold ten people of Ronok's size, sixteen if they were good friends. All of the partitions had been retracted, and now the suddenly cavernous chamber held dozens of cells, all of them full. Varis was sitting at a table in the middle of it all, reading a news-chip with his stun cannon lying in full view on the tabletop. There was a murmur of quiet conversation among the prisoners, and hundreds of sleepy yellow eyes turned in their direction when she and Tamzet entered.

Varis looked up and signed a greeting as they approached, which she returned distractedly.

“Hey Varis, do you have room for one more?” She asked a little breathlessly; Doc had not been exaggerating their numbers in the slightest.

“Nope. Full up.” Varis sighed and put his news-chip aside. “He'd be sitting on the floor or on someone's lap, and that's against safety regs. What d'you want to bet that Lotor's going to have them all declared dead to save his own skin?”

“No bets, Varis,” Varda said grimly. “It's just the sort of thing he'd do. What are we going to do with them all?”

The room was suddenly silent as every inmate's full attention was focused on the big blue alien. He turned and looked them over in turn, his eyes sad. “That's up to the Captain. Yantilee won't space 'em, that's a waste of our hard work. Won't sell 'em neither, cause you'd have his spines for that. Most likely... well, a couple of things. Might drop 'em all back at that little military school we caught that training ship near, with a note saying that Lotor's a flaming coward and wasteful of his men. Might drop 'em at the colonies here and there, with a pocketful of cash so's they can make their own way to wherever. Might keep one or two, if they ain't interested in going home. Happens sometimes. You'll know more'n me soon enough.”

“Yes,” she murmured distantly, staring at the huge responsibility that had been laid on them. It was purple and a lot of it was furry, and all of it was staring right back at her. “Well, I could give Tamzet here to Ronok. They'd get along all right, I think.”

“Good idea. He'll need the help anyway.” Varis heaved himself up out of his chair and opened a small cabinet on a nearby wall, removing something ring-shaped. “He'll have to wear this, though, to keep him out of trouble. Hah. Though it didn't work so well on you, eh?”

“I had help,” Varda replied primly. “Don't fight him, Tamzet.”

Tamzet frowned, but stood still while the collar was locked around his neck.

“There,” Varis said, handing the key to Varda. “Hand that off to Ronok along with the kid. Before you do that, take him to the storeroom down the hall and get him out of that ugly suit. Ronok won't have Galra armor in the kitchen—says it curdles the custard. It's true, he showed me once.”

Varda found that amusing, but didn't dispute it; some of Ronok's recipes really were that sensitive to certain substances. Most of them just spoiled or turned funny colors, but one or two actually exploded and left glowing pink globs of goo all over everything. To save time, Varda released Tamzet's hands and left the cuffs with Varis, and then led her charge a little way down the hall. The storeroom in question usually didn't hold much other than whatever bits and pieces were left over from stocking the others, and she remembered that a large crate of casual clothing had been stashed there after the last time Plosser had made her capture a trade ship. It was still there, but nearly buried under huge piles of Galra armor. She left Tamzet to add his own to the heap so that she could pop open the crate and have a look at the contents.

“You're lucky,” she told him, digging around for something that looked about the right size. “When they brought me in for the first time, they didn't have anything shaped or sized right for small people. Or even for upright bipeds. It took a while to find more than one outfit that would do. Here, try these.”

He caught the pair of pants she threw him and looked quizzically at her. “They made you wear a collar, too?”

She nodded, digging out a sleeveless shirt in a nice cream color. “Yup. For the first few months here, I was the kitchen slave. Then Yantilee led a mutiny. Now I'm First Mate, among other things. Looks like you're out of luck in the shoe department, but hey, so was I. It's all right, Ronok doesn't mind. Put this on and I'll take you to meet him.”

He did as he was told. He looked younger now, dressed in civilian clothing, and surprisingly vulnerable. He really wasn't all that much older than she was, she saw, and she cursed Lotor all over again for dragging a bunch of half-trained teens into a situation that battle-hardened veterans would prefer to avoid. Well, he would be better off in the kitchen, peeling wozzacks where nobody would shoot at him.

The mess hall was deserted at this time of day, although the savory smells of dinner cooking made them both sniff the air hopefully. Koboric pasta with thal sauce, onypt dumplings, steamed loti, ghrembak stew, and iced teral for dessert, she thought, and her belly rumbled in anticipation. She pushed open the doors and headed inside, where she found her uncle measuring a generous portion of yurosk powder into the huge stewpots.

Hey, Ronok,” she called across the bustle and clatter of a feast being formulated. “I've brought you a present! Someone to help you haul sacks of wolsheg beans.”

Tamzet was staring in disbelief at the elderly Simadhi. A Galra? Here? And obviously a freeperson and master of his domain. Ronok glanced up at him and grunted. “Good. He can help feed his fellow prisoners too, for all that he shouldn't be among them. He's far too young to be a soldier. What are you doing here, boy?”

“Drafted, sir,” Tamzet replied in a diffident voice. “Along with everyone my age or older from Orpaxus Academy.”

Ronok growled and set the spice jar aside. “That's illegal. Prince or no, he should not have done that, and the Director should not have permitted it to happen.”

“Prince Lotor... didn't give him a choice, sir.” Tamzet said meekly. “He's the Crown Prince.”

“That does not mean that he is above his own father's laws,” Ronok said sharply. “Hopefully, the old man will tear a strip out of him for disregarding a very sensible piece of legislature. That fool will certainly have a hard time explaining his other failures of judgment. We can't do anything about it now, boy, so I might as well teach you how to make cookies. We're out again.”

“Again?” Varda said. “But we just made a whole new batch!”

Ronok waved a hand at the cookie bin, which looked rather the worse for wear. “One of the Nantileeri managed to filch a cutting torch from Maozuh's toolroom very early yesterday morning, and they had the lid off of its hinges and the bin cleaned out before I woke up. I've already sent Chelpa down to Stores to fetch me up a strongbox. Let's see the little _bitras_ get through that. If you're hungry, Varda, there are lelosha wraps in the cooler, and haul out that tub of fried palmot loins for the boy. He needs feeding up.”

She did as she was told, snarfing down her snack just as eagerly as Tamzet attacked his. Once finished, she left the somewhat more cheerful-looking boy in Ronok's very capable hands to go see what the other Paladins might have gotten up to. They were nearby, she could feel it, so she followed that feeling back up to the ruined fort and all the way into the main cavern, where a remarkable sight met her eyes. It was not every day that one saw a disaster right on the brink of happening, and this one was being witnessed by hundreds. Most of the _Quandary's_ crew were present, plus a fair number of crewmen from the other fleet ships, and she was able to spot the distinctive armor of the Paladins among the crowd as well. This great mass of people had crowded up against the walls, leaving a huge open space in the middle of the room, where two ominous figures were standing facing each other. One of them was a tall Galra female, holding a bone spear in one hand and staring the other right in the eyes that it didn't have; the other was an unveiled Hoshinthra. They were very still, but Varda could see the tension in their stances, the slow ripple of muscle and tendon under fur and scales as they watched each other for the slightest opening. The Hoshinthra's long arms began to extend, displaying the deadly fighting claws, and the Galra woman began to sway slowly from side to side, and the butt of her spear tapped lightly on the floor with a sound that echoed around the room like a thunderclap. Varda was moving before she realized it, and she dashed forward across the intervening space to come to a halt between the two, bayard drawn and blade humming less than an arm's length from the Hoshinthra's head.

“ _NO!”_ She snarled furiously, “Back off, doom moose! Back, I say, or I'll jam my bayard so far up your nose that your tail will glow green! You will not touch this Galra, for she is of my pack. You will not touch _any_ of my pack, or those that have allied themselves with my pack.”

The Hoshinthra's antennae were twisting and turning, and its arms had paused half-extended; it was impossible to read the creature's expression, but she knew perplexity when she saw it. Varda was dimly aware that the other Paladins had formed up around her and the Galra woman, but she was too angry to care.

“If any of you even think of trying to kill my pack or my pack's allies, I will dismantle you, Shussshorim, and the _Night Terror_ with my bare hands, and I will have plenty of light to see by this time because I will yank off your still-glowing tail and use it as a lamp. It will be my lucky Hoshinthra butt and I will take it wherever I go.” Varda drew in a deep breath, her weapon steady as a rock in her hand. “You cannot have everything you want.”

The Hoshinthra stood as still as a statue for a long moment, taking in the scene before it. It knew who these people were, and what they were, and how they fit into the totality around them. It could perceive a portion of the shape of their future, and of their past, and the likelihood that the small one would follow through on its threat. It was aware of the Talssenemai studying them through its senses, running the probabilities through her own wider and much-enhanced perceptions, and coming to a decision. The resulting plan of action was a little surprising to the simpler mind of a Warrior, but it knew that its mother had her reasons, and submitted to the Talssenemai's guidance.

“ _The Talssenemai concedes,”_ it said, settling its arms back against its shoulders.

“Huh?” Varda said, surprised.

“ _The Talssenemai speaks through this person. The bold one's demands will be met. No member of her pack need fear the Hoshinthra. No ally of her pack need fear the Hoshinthra. The bold one will be required to create a token that will mark pack and ally as such, and to make sure that all carry this token. The bold one is required to make this token known to the Talssenemai, that she knows what to look for.”_

Varda blinked, glanced down at her breastplate, and tapped the green V-shaped symbol enameled there. “This,” she replied, “that's the sign. It might be in different colors and materials, though.”

The Hoshinthra lowered its head, antennae spread wide to perceive it fully. _“Acknowledged. The token will be known as authentic regardless, for it will be of your making, and of the making of your pack. Hoshinthra can tell the difference between the real ones and a fake, and we will deal with counterfeiters in our own way. Those who bear the correct token may traverse our range without fear.”_

So saying, the Hoshinthra turned and cantered up the ramp and out of the cavern, leaving a speechless crowd behind it.

Varda swallowed hard, staring at her bayard, which was starting to tremble in a suddenly unsteady hand. “I cannot believe that I just did that,” she muttered.

“That's all right, neither can we,” the Galra woman said in a voice that was no steadier than Varda's hand. “My goodness. Well done, young lady. I truly did not want to have to fight that creature, and I'm pretty sure that the feeling was mutual. I have no idea of who would have won that fight... assuming that there would have been a winner.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Varda replied, putting her bayard away on the second try. “Who are you?”

The Paladins snorted and snickered, and the woman let out a laugh. “I'm your Scary Space Aunt, dear. Lizenne Ghurap'Han, the Rogue Witch. Pleased to meet you.”

Varda grinned sheepishly and shook her hand. “I know the name, but I don't remember you. I mean, your voice sounds familiar, but...”

Lizenne nodded, looking around at the wary pirates, no few of whom knew of her as well, and were keeping their distance. “I'm aware. I have ways of mending the damage that was done to you, if you'll permit me to use them. I know, I should have waited a little time to approach you on that matter, but you've had those hexes in you for a long time. They need to come out, and as soon as possible.”

“That's what we were trying to talk to you about that first time, before everything went bad on us,” Hunk said. “Hey, Keith, do you think that you could--”

“No,” Keith said grimly. “We were able to get the surface hex off. That was what was giving her a migraine whenever she got too close to us. I can't get the deeper stuff out without burning us both. Even with the Lions helping, I just haven't had enough practice yet to want to risk it.”

“Some of you are starting to learn caution, then. Good.” Yantilee said as he approached, looming awesomely over them and giving Lizenne a nod. “You have quite a reputation for chaotic behavior, Rogue Witch, although you might have chosen a better time to appear than here and now.”

Lizenne flashed him a grin. “I have my reasons, Admiral, and I and mine have been following these youngsters around in a state of near-obsessive fascination for quite some time now. I have no intention whatsoever of doing them or any of your people any harm, and I'd be perfectly happy if the Ghost Fleet were to become a member of the Voltron Alliance. Even that mad Hoshinthra. For Voltron itself to function properly, however, I will need to return your First Mate's memories to her, and then we will have to take her away. I am sorry, but there is no replacing her at this point. The Lions themselves have made too large an investment in her to give her up now.”

Yantilee hummed. “The boys did mention that you had a way of doing that.”

Lizenne nodded and turned her attention to Varda, raising one hand as she did so. “Varda, I will need to have a look at your mind. It will not hurt, and I promise not to do anything sinister. I will not do this without your permission.”

Varda glanced around at the Paladins, who gave her smiles and encouraging gestures. “All right.”

“Very good dear. Hold still.” Lizenne murmured, and laid a gentle hand on her head. Varda felt a peculiar tingle in the back of her skull and down her spine, and she heard the Galra mutter, “Ah, yes, there they are. The full set... that vicious _bitra_ wanted you, all right. You've worked the lesser stuff out yourself, but the controls are still there and... Damn.”

“What's the matter?” Allura asked.

Lizenne pulled her hand back with a concerned frown at Varda. “It's too late. The control hexes have worked themselves too deeply into her nervous system to remove without killing her or rendering her witless. I might, with a great deal of work, be able to restore parts of her memory, but not all of it. Worse, she'll be vulnerable to Haggar's curses. I can't do anything about that.”

Varda squeaked in dismay. “You mean that I'm going to have my dreams haunted for the rest of my life?”

“Or until someone kills her,” Lizenne said matter-of-factly, “or unless you have a Hoshinthra with you at all times. No few of their senses concern the Mindscape, and if they feel her sniffing around, they will attack.”

“I am not sharing my bedroom with a doom moose,” Varda said firmly. “Isn't there anything else we could try?”

“How about this?” Lance said, pulling a small cut-crystal flask out of his armor. “I meant to show this to you earlier, Lizenne, but things kind of got busy and I forgot. Loliqua said that it was good for loosening up curses.”

Lizenne took the bottle carefully from him, examining it from all angles before popping the stopper off and giving the contents a sniff. Her eyebrows nearly lifted off of her head at whatever she smelled in there, and carefully put the stopper back in. “I have got to talk to this woman. Lance, I hope that you got her address, because after all of this silliness is done with, we are going to pay her a visit.”

Lance grinned. “Omorog. She said that she'll be in the Winter Palace near the City of Grothora, just south of the Cauldron Plain for the next couple of months or so. She wants to talk to you, too, and I want to come too, 'cause the kids are great and the cook makes really good cake.”

Varda stared at the greenish stuff in the bottle with deep suspicion. “What exactly is that?”

Lizenne was swirling it around and didn't notice her expression. “I suppose that you could call it--”

Yantilee raised a hand sharply. “Don't say it!”

But it was too late. “--Medicine? Oh...”

At the sound of that word, Varda sprang away and sprinted for the nearest exit. Lizenne smiled. “Well, she's healthy.”

Yantilee sighed and raised his head, booming out “Varda Hunt!”

“Whooo!” someone yipped, “What's the prize?”

Yantilee winced. “A bottle of my Rejolian brandy.”

“Yay, Varda Hunt!” the cry went up, and suddenly everybody around them was on the move.

Keith watched the stampede in puzzlement for a moment before asking, “Going to explain that?”

Yantilee smiled thinly. “Every couple of weeks, Doc makes her up a dose of vitamin booster to maintain her health. She doesn't like the flavor at all, so if she sees an opening, she'll head for the hills rather than drink it. The crew likes to chase her down and bring her back for fun and prizes, and because they like her too much to see her get sick.”

Keith smiled. It was not a very nice smile. Hunk gave him a suspicious look. “Keith, what are you thinking? Keith, wait! Keith! Come back here! You aren't old enough to drink!”

Lance grinned and turned to follow. “I'll get him!”

He got no further than an arm's length, for Allura had caught him by the collar of his armor. “No, you won't. If both of you start crashing around in here, you'll bring what's left of this fort down around our ears. Let him get this out of his system. How long do you think it will take, Admiral?”

Yantilee shrugged and leaned back on his tail. “As long as it takes. She's a tricky one, but as you'd noticed, the fort's a mess. No more'n fifteen minutes, tops. Depends on how good a hunter that red kid is.”

Lizenne smiled. “He's quite good. Let us watch.”

 

Keith also had an advantage. He let the pirates dash around in fruitless searching while he homed in on Pidge through the Lion-bond. He was pretty sure that she felt him doing so, and his suspicions were confirmed when he turned a corner, leaped up a pile of crumbled stone, and found her waiting for him in the hall above. She stood proudly, her eyes as intent and untameable as a mountain lion's, a fierce smile upon her lips. He smiled back, seeing the challenge in her stance; something in him was powerfully attracted to the strength he saw there, and his smile widened into a grin when she drew her bayard. _Fine,_ he thought, drawing his own. He'd seen a new level of skill in her during their fight with Lotor, and he wanted to see what she had learned from her hosts.

Varda was perfectly happy to show him. She lunged forward, ducking to his left at the last moment and slashing at his leg in a move that might have hamstrung him if he hadn't parried in time. She fought dirty, he was pleased to see, and pressed her hard in turn, pausing only when a shout from behind him told them that they had company. Varda bounced away and ran, leaving Keith to deal with the competition. He dealt with it by not dealing with it, sprinting ahead of the motley pack, and was thus able to hear Varda shout: “Osric! Seventeen, forty-eight, and two!”

Remembering what had happened the last time she'd called out a number to the ship itself, Keith was able to leap over the tripwire, dodge around the beam that swung at him at waist height, and dive past the net that dropped from the ceiling without slowing down. Yelps and curses from behind told him that some of the pirates hadn't been so lucky. He saw a flicker of green ahead, and ran on.

 

In the main cavern, the Paladins, the Admiral, the Rogue Witch, and that portion of the crew who couldn't metabolize Rejolian brandy watched the chase with due admiration for the participants' skills. Keith's adroit avoidance of three booby-traps in quick succession had drawn applause, and Lance sidled up to Lizenne and asked if she thought that Zaianne would teach him to do that.

“No, alas,” Lizenne replied, not taking her eyes off of the action. “Those are Blade techniques, and she's forbidden from training those not of the Order. They don't take non-Galra applicants.”

Lance pouted. “Aw, man! That's super-discriminatory.”

“It's necessary to their survival,” Lizenne murmured, watching as Varda leaped nimbly from the third level onto one of the few intact catwalks. “An alien member, if captured, might be forced to give up information when threatened with the death of his entire race. Zarkon might be a classic tyrant, but he hasn't sunk to the level of wiping out whole planetary populations of his own people. Not yet. You could always ask Keith to teach you—he's not a full member at the moment.”

Lance groaned, and then gasped along with the rest of the crowd when Keith sprang onto the bridge and closed with Varda again in a whirl of glowing blades. Behind him, he heard someone say, “Hey, Nasty! Nasty, look at that! You taught her that, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” another voice said proudly, “and she learned a lot better than I thought she did. Look at her go!”

Even the crowd of pursuing pirates had come to a halt now, unwilling to interrupt the sparring match. It was fascinating, the Paladins had to admit, to watch such different fighters with such different weapons dancing together in a test of speed and skill. Finally, the green Paladin brought down her bayard hard on her opponent's blade, hooking it and trying to pull it out of his grasp. That didn't work; Keith's grip was like iron. Undaunted, she smirked at him and used the blade-lock to swing herself between his legs, planting a boot-heel in his behind as a parting gesture. Keith had to fight to keep from falling over face-first, but was after her almost instantly.

There were cheers and howls of laughter from the crowd at this dirty trick, and the voice belonging to “Nasty” crowed, “Oh, Lawsy, she's good! _Please_ tell me that someone's recording this!”

“Started up my vidcorder right when the red kid took off, Nasty. Like I'd miss this one!” his friend replied cheerfully.

Varda had leaped again, this time heading from the first catwalk to the remains of another, passing over one of the remaining functional antigrav lifts. Keith was right behind her, and might even have caught her, but she turned it off halfway there. They both fell about eight feet, Keith landing first and Varda bouncing off of his back. “Oh, you did _not_ just do that!” they heard Keith yell.

“Oh, yes I did!” Varda laughed, and used another lift some distance away to elevate herself to the fourth level.

Keith did not have her gift with technology, but his mixed parentage had gifted him with speed and strength beyond that of what most would expect from someone of his size and build, and he was well-versed in how to use his armor's jetpack to give him a boost where necessary. Varda was going for height now, past the point where the lifts could take her, using her bayard to grapple and swing to the snapped-off upper catwalks. Keith came surging after her, climbing the surviving rope ladders where he could, bounding jet-assisted where he couldn't, and generally defying gravity in the best tradition of heroic warriors throughout history. They met at last on the highest catwalk under the brilliant beams of the sun through the hole in the roof, where they engaged in another fierce fencing match. Far below, the crowd had swirled together beneath them like an amoeba around a piece of food, hundreds of fascinated faces staring upward. Keith noticed that his own team was more or less directly below and had an idea. It would be tricky to manage with this little emerald dervish, but he thought he could pull it off. So thinking, he began to drive his opponent toward the broken-off end of the catwalk. He wasn't quite as fast with with his bayard as she was with hers, but he was bigger, his reach was longer, and he had the advantage in simple brute strength. It helped that the catwalk, originally meant to allow maintenance technicians to access the uppermost vent and lighting systems, was quite narrow. She couldn't get around him without falling off, and she knew it. Finally, he cornered her against the broken-off end, and glanced down; sure enough, directly below them was a figure in yellow-accented armor.

“Hey, Hunk!” he yelled, “Catch!”

“What?” Varda said.

Keith shoved her off of the catwalk.

She dropped like a stone; there were no functioning lifts here, and it was a straight plummet right down to the bottom floor. She was able to slow her fall with her own jetpack, but she might have done herself an injury anyway if Hunk hadn't caught her in his strong, capable arms. She glared up at the distant red Paladin, shook one fist at him, and yelled _“Foul!”_

“Hi,” Hunk said.

She glared at him. “'Hi'?” she echoed, gasping for breath. “Hey! What are you doing?”

He was bouncing her gently in his arms, as if testing her weight. “Hey, you've muscled up some. That's great! We were worried about that. Keith, get your butt down here and check this out! Lance, heads up!”

“What are you doing?” Varda said, a strange suspicion arising in the back of her mind.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Hot potato!”

“Those words,” she said, “They fill me with wra—aaaaath!”

He hurled her into the air, where she landed heavily in the arms of the blue Paladin. “Hi!” he said, hefting her experimentally. “Yeah, you have gained some good solid weight lately. Keith, hurry up! Allura, your turn!”

“Not if I strangle you first,” Varda growled, but was thrown again before she could get a grip on his neck.

The black Paladin caught her this time, smiling at her breathless cursing. “You've also gained a whole new vocabulary. It's good to see you so vigorous, Varda.”

“Put me down!” Varda yelled.

“Not quite yet. Keith hasn't had his turn. Keith!” And once again, Varda was pitched heavenward.

When she came down in the red Paladin's arms, she was ready to kill something. “This is all your fault,” she said, waving a furious finger under his nose.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “and Hunk's too, but we're having too much fun to quit.”

Varda would have replied with something incendiary, but Zardruss leaned over and said, “It does look like fun. Can we try?”

“What?” Varda yelped.

Keith grinned. “Sure. The more, the merrier. Catch!”

Zardruss caught an armful of ragefully-squawking First Mate easily, yelled “Varda Toss!” and threw her again, and before long, the green Paladin was bouncing wildly all over the room.

“ _I will kill you all!”_ she howled, to general amusement.

“Gotta be on the ground to do that!” some wit called back.

“ _My revenge will be swift and terrible!”_

“Can't do it while you're flying!” someone else replied.

Her language took a turn for the worse after that.

Yantilee chuckled. “They do love a new game. She'll have to watch herself around them from now on. The _Quandary's_ a roomy ship. Or maybe she won't have to. That little sip of slosh there will do the trick?”

Lizenne nodded, swirling the bottle idly in one hand. “Oh, yes. I feel rather privileged to be able to use it, actually. Genuinely holy relics, given freely, are very rare. Let them toss her around a little more, if you would. The more tired out she is, the less she'll be able to fight me, and the less likely we will be to spill this precious bottle.”

Yantilee hummed thoughtfully. “I'll handle her... in a minute or two.”

The Admiral of the Ghost Fleet was skilled at observing patterns, and when she saw the movements of the crowd bringing her furious First Mate back in her direction, she stepped up smartly, nudged a few crewmen out of the way, and caught Varda neatly, one hand closing firmly over each limb. Varda was gasping for breath, too rattled to speak, and nearly cross-eyed with rage, she observed, and swept a stern gaze over the disappointed crowd. “Back to work, you lot. It's been fun, but it is time and past time that we left. The sooner we're done with the cleanout, the more time you'll have to rig the place to blow in the event that the Galra might come back.”

Yantilee had made a valid point, and the crowd began to disperse. Yantilee watched them to make sure that they all complied until an indignant voice said, “You can put me down now.”

“Not just yet,” Yantilee replied, and turned back toward the odd little group standing nearby. “Here's your chance, Witch. Dose her now while the crew's got their minds on other things.”

Lizenne nodded, handed the bone spear to Allura, and stepped smartly forward. Varda had no time to protest before a pair of purple fingers pinched her nose, and when she was forced to open her mouth or suffocate, a splash of something unusual was poured down her throat. Varda swallowed, coughed, and made a face. _“Ugggh!_ Swamp water!”

“ _Sacred_ swamp water,” Lance clarified with a smile.

“Shut up, Lance,” she growled, pulling irritably at Yantilee's grip.

He grinned. “Aww, she remembers my name.”

“Only because everybody's been yelling it, usually to make you shut up!” she snapped, “Yantilee, let go!”

“She will in a minute, dear,” Lizenne said, sliding one hand up under the back of Varda's helmet, her yellow eyes going distant for a moment. “Oh, my, yes, that's precisely it. I absolutely must talk to that woman, the elixir is bringing them up beautifully. Yes... there. Brace yourself, girl, this is going to hurt. Only briefly, I promise.”

Varda had already been feeling strange in spots, as though the back of her brain and sections of her spine had turned into some sort of thick syrup, and that seven hard barbed things, like cockleburrs as big as walnuts, were floating slowly to the surface. She felt Lizenne's fingertip tap the back of her skull sharply, and then at those syrupy spots all down her back, and then the woman spoke a sharp syllable that caused the burry things to explode. Varda gave a loud squawk of agony, wrenching at Yantilee's hands, but the pain was gone almost instantly.

“That's it?” Yantilee asked.

“That's all,” Lizenne said cheerfully. “Her system will need a moment to right itself, and she'll need comforting. Hunk?”

Hunk saluted. “Hug-In-Trousers reporting for duty. Just give her here, okay?”

Varda groaned as she was passed from one set of arms to another. Something in the back of her mind was rumbling ominously, like a dam about to burst. Distantly, she heard an increasingly familiar voice saying, “Full return of memory in three... two... one...”

Her mind burst. Varda gasped and held onto Hunk for dear life as she remembered everything _._ Her father and brother going on their ill-fated trip to Kerberos. Breaking into Galaxy Garrison Academy to search for them after that long, wretched year of waiting. Changing her name and appearance to enroll in that same academy after being banned from the premises. Rescuing Shiro. Being kidnapped by the Blue Lion. Finding her own. The team training. Their first successful Voltron formation. Sendak. Nearly losing the Castle. Tasting her first tanrook bun. Reclaiming her lost family. More training, this time in more advanced techniques. Meeting the Olkari. Losing Shiro. Everything, more and more of it, up until the point where the horrendous shock of Haggar's curse took it all away.

When her vision finally cleared, she found herself clinging to the shoulder of someone she suddenly knew a lot better than she had before, someone she had missed dearly without ever realizing it. Hunk smiled when her grip became a glomp, and he patted her back comfortingly. “Hi, Pidge,” he said, “we missed you.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice muffled from trying not to cry, “I missed you too. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. The last week or two's been kind of interesting, is all.” Hunk sighed and wondered how Medrok and Lituya were doing. “After that stinky blue guy walked into--”

A feral snarl sounded right in his ear, and suddenly Hunk was trying to hold onto a very small, very angry tornado. “Oh my god, that bastard _sold_ you! I'm going to find Plosser, then I'm going to rip him to pieces and then eat the pieces!”

“Whoa! Whoa! Quit flailing!” Hunk flinched as her elbow bonked his helmet. “We don't know where he is, and you don't want to eat him, anyway. He smells like stale Velveeta, and that's not healthy. Calm down, will you? We're fine. Some of us even had fun. I mean, I helped some kids build a ticket arcade, that was pretty cool.”

Varda—no, _Pidge_ relaxed against his shoulder, snorting a laugh. “Only you, Hunk. A ticket arcade? Really?”

“Yup, and a good one.” Hunk smiled at her. “Allura's too pretty for her own good, so she wound up in a harem. Modhri got a really good picture of her in the outfit, too.”

Pidge stared owlishly at him, and then at Allura. “Oh, _quiznek._ Did you have to--”

Allura waved a reassuring hand. “No, luckily. Helenva had the Governor well-distracted, and we more or less rescued ourselves.”

“Yeah, she lucked out,” Hunk continued. “Keith's the one who pulled the short straw, though. He wound up in an arena on Boniro--”

“An _arena?!_ Oh, god, Keith, you could've been killed!” Pidge craned anxiously around, trying to examine him for injuries. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” he replied, pleased to see that she cared. “I even learned a new trick, and made a friend, too. You'll like Kelezar. Just keep in mind that he's not Zarkon, and you should get along fine.”

She glared at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Keith?”

Lance laughed. “Nah, he's already halfway an alien and doesn't need any help to be weird. I learned a neat trick and made friends too--”

“And desecrated Carrie Fisher's legacy,” Keith growled.

“What?” Pidge asked.

Allura smirked. “I wasn't the only one sold as a pleasure-slave; he wound up on the planet of Omorog, as the property of a princess. Alas, she wasn't the sort of princess he'd been hoping for.”

Pidge blinked. One of the crew had been to Omorog a few times and had spent an evening in the mess hall after dinner telling unlikely stories about that amphibious people and their interesting take on royalty... “Wait a minute. Lance, you were sold to the Toad Princess of Omorog?”

“Well, yeah, but--”

Pidge burst out into whoops of laughter, collapsing helplessly over Hunk's shoulder.

Lance scowled at her. “Hey now, she's a wonderful woman and I respect her enormously, and I won't hear a word spoken against her! She really did help us out by giving us that sacred swamp water, you know.”

“And he's not allowed to tease me about Shay anymore, either.” Hunk added, patting her back again. “You got lucky, too. That whole big ship to run around in, all those little ships to play with, and lots of new friends to teach you cool stuff.”

Pidge heaved a shuddering sigh. “It wasn't all fun and games, Hunk, and there were parts of it that I still don't like thinking about. Those hexes are really gone, Lizenne?”

“Completely and forever, dear.” Lizenne said, reclaiming her bone spear from Allura. “You're free, which is going to infuriate the witch that planted them. Admiral Yantilee, do you mind if the rest of the family comes over to check up on our girl here? That's one more Altean, my husband, three or four Blades of Marmora, a pair of dragons, and the mice.”

“Oh, god, the mice,” Pidge groaned. “Maybe not the mice. We've got Nantileeri here, Lizenne, and if they see them, there is going to be trouble. This place is a mess as it is!”

Yantilee smiled. “Your crew is motlier than mine, for all that it's smaller. Let me warn my lot first—we're a little wary of Galra at the moment for some reason.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, Pidge and Keith's little sparring match has a soundtrack! It was inspired by Lindsay Sterling's Moon Trance. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPkguSNalbI
> 
> Next update will be...sometime. When work stops assuming I don't need a life outside the store. Grah.


	28. Promises and Rewards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, another chapter! I've had a crazy couple of weeks and there promises to be more, thus the reason I'm posting so late tonight. I've got good news and bad news about the fic that I'll stick in the end notes. But for now, happy reading!

Chapter 28: Promises and Rewards

 

Wary they might have been, but nobody was willing to pass up a chance to see more legends. Coran, after all, was a great rarity, and he was having a wonderful time expounding upon the history of the Stronghold and decrying the mess that had been made of it. The fact that the ghost of his uncle Cedran had hung on inside the particle barrier for so long had surprised and pleased him, although he was rather taken aback by their solution to the “ears” problem. Apparently, he'd never heard of the Vontakles having detachable ears. Kezz had smiled damply, still being in mourning for his friend, and remarked that a few thousand years of progress could change a people.

Kolanth, Zaianne, and Helenva (Kelezar was sleeping off another round of training sessions) were looked upon with both fear and fascination. They had come out of the ship in full regalia in case of trouble, although they had come unmasked, and the simple fact of their existence had come as a shock for many. They had previously been little more than an ugly rumor in this part of the cosmos, and the fact that Zaianne was Keith's mother was shocking to no few of the pirates.

The Dragons, if anything, caused even more comment, if only for their massive size, spikiness, and strength, and for their unmonsterly habit of sniffing people over, sneezing, and giggling girlishly. After a short period of trepidation among the crew, Tilla and Soluk found no lack of people willing to pet them.

The mice... Oh, god, the mice. They had refused point blank to stay aboard the Castle and were now running riot through the Stronghold's nooks and crannies with the Nantileeri squawking and cursing after them. Every so often there would be a twang and a thud of a booby trap going off, a great deal of exasperated screeching, and bursts of very small villainous laughter.

Modhri had simply gravitated to Lizenne's side and would not leave her, although his gentle smile and willingness to help surprised and pleased everyone who met him.

All of them had looked Pidge over, pronounced her whole and hearty, and then had been bullied into helping with the teardown by the young lady they had come to rescue. Pidge, Paladin or no Paladin, was still First Mate and felt that she had a responsibility to her Captain and her crew; Allura respected that enough to let her get away with it. In truth, Allura saw more here than just a ragtag rogue's gallery of disparate peoples; Yantilee was an excellent commanding officer who handled his colleagues and crew with skill and confidence, and the crew themselves were a well-trained and responsive one. The Captains and crews of the other ships were much the same, and while they lacked the strict discipline of a military organization, they were just as effective. Once again, Allura's political training stirred, and she saw the potential for a powerful ally in the Ghost Fleet. The problem was that they had no real port of call and the local planetary governments saw them as criminals. Aside from the various smuggler's havens and dark ports, they had no real support and supply system. It was a real problem, although Yantilee's plans for the future stood a good chance of fixing that, and reminded Allura that she, too, had a planet to liberate. She was soon far too busy to think about any of that, however; as one of only two people in the whole Sector who really understood antique Altean systems, she had been required to help separate what was salvageable from what wasn't and get it all pulled out and packed away in the ships. By the time that dinner was ready, she was too tired and hungry to think of anything but getting something into her stomach, and joined her team below in a part of the _Quandary_ that had been home to Pidge for half a year. The ship's mess hall was hardly what Allura would have called homely, being rather dim, cavernous, and crowded, but it smelled heavenly. Whoever was doing the cooking was very skilled at his work. Even the ghrembak stew, which had so disgusted her when she and Pidge and Lizenne had been melded into a single dragon, tasted very good. For a good half-hour, nothing mattered except getting as much of the wide selection of edibles into her as she could, and when she took the time to glance at the others, they seemed to feel much the same. Lance was nose-deep in the noodles, Keith was attacking the dumplings, Hunk and Pidge were devouring everything in sight, and Coran was on his third plate of some sort of steamed greens. Their Galra friends were showing considerable appetite as well, and as for the mice and dragons... well, at least they were on their best behavior at the moment. The mice had been presented with what seemed to be a large bowl of toasted thelwisk seeds, a rare delicacy even in Altea's heyday, and they were simply too busy gorging themselves on that treat to make any more trouble. Two huge tureens of stew had been brought out for the dragons, who had been helping by hauling debris out of blocked corridors all day, and Tilla was currently licking the face of the kitchen assistant who had been sent out to give them seconds.

Eventually, Hunk let out a huge belch and said, “Pidge, I have got to talk to whoever made all of this food and steal his recipe book. That was great.”

“Ronok's really good at what he does,” Pidge said, spearing just one more dumpling. “Oh! I need to introduce you to him, too, Modhri. Ronok's been my other uncle pretty much since I came here.”

Modhri scraped the last of the sauce out of his empty noodle bowl and smiled. “I'd be happy to add a brother to the family. Did he make it official?”

Pidge shrugged. “I call him my Uncle, and he calls me his niece. I'm pretty sure, since that's what we did. Come on, I need to hug him anyway, and check up on the new guy.”

Helenva chuckled and pushed her empty plate back. “This I must see. And get the recipe for those dumplings. If I eat any more of them, I'll burst. I haven't had any that good since I was very little.”

Pidge smiled. “If he's in a decent mood, he might just share. Come on, let's go and see.”

 

Ghrembak stew, Tamzet thought as he helped put the final prep on dessert, was both the salvation and the bane of the Imperial Military. The salvation, because all but one of the ingredients were cheap, plentiful, easily-obtained, and filling. He'd heard no few prayers of thanks for it during his time at Orpaxus, and had muttered a few himself on several occasions, usually after a particularly hard day. The bane of it lay in the one ingredient that was not cheap or plentiful. Yurosk powder was the key to making the stuff smell and taste like something fallen from heaven; without it, it smelled and tasted like fermenting manure sacks. Unfortunately, the Quartermasters—all of whom were high enough in rank so that they didn't have to eat stew if they didn't want to—often tried to save money by neglecting to stock that all-important seasoning. Ronok, bless the old man thrice over, had not only laid in an impressive store of the vital savory, but knew exactly how to use it.

It had certainly made feeding the prisoners easier. The big blue alien... Varis, he was called, had met them at the door of the brig and engaged Ronok in casual conversation for just long enough to let the fragrance from the huge stewpots waft suggestively into every corner of the room. The prisoners, all of them firmly under the influence of Doc's little yellow pills, had not given them the least little bit of trouble. Even Lieutenant-Commander Holrash, an absolute terror to everyone below him in rank—and that had been pretty much everybody except the Captain—had muttered sincere thanks when Tamzet had given him his bowl.

The injured ones in the clinic had accepted the meal just as eagerly, although several of them had needed to be hand-fed due to wounded or missing arms. Tamzet could respect Doc for taking up that duty, and the hideous Abyoran and the three other medical assistants as well. He respected Ronok even more for staying to help with the problem patient. That was Colonel Ethrak, who had been one of the teaching faculty at Orpaxus before the Prince had stripped the Academy of everything and everyone of use. Tamzet knew the spare, graying officer as a hard taskmaster and fanatically loyal to the Empire, and he would not tolerate what he considered to be disloyalty in his cadets. Ronok, who had nothing good to say about the Empire or those who ruled it, and who had joined a pirate crew of his own free will, was anathema to him. Well-dosed with sedative though he was, Ethrak's burning zeal was able to counteract enough of it to scold the elderly cook for his shameful behavior.

Ronok had merely looked Ethrak mildly in the eye and had said, _“Ghralmasht khesh'laktu tethera solturosk”_ in a Simadhi accent so pure that Tamzet had nearly been able to hear the echoing effect of that world's caverns, and it had shut Ethrak up immediately. It had taken Tamzet a few minutes to translate that phrase from the classical language, although the dread syllable _khesh_ had warned him that it wouldn't be good. His Aunt had insisted that he at least had a smattering of the old tongue, and the memory of those studies served him now. It was actually a classic quote from ten thousand years past; the Queen of Simadht herself had said those words in response to a demand from the Imperial Twins for her surrender. _I oppose in all ways those who would deny me and mine the right to live,_ was what it meant, and Tamzet had shivered to hear it.

A hand on his shoulder made him pause and look up from sprinkling some sort of sweet spice over the finished confections. Ronok was checking his work, and didn't seem displeased. “Have you done any cooking before this, boy?” the old man asked.

“A little, sir,” Tamzet replied. “One of my cousins taught me a few things, and we're trained to forage at Orpaxus, in case we get marooned somewhere later. I would have liked to learn more, but my Aunt said no.”

A faint frown made the lines in Ronok's face deepen slightly, but he only sighed and patted Tamzet's shoulder. “Tamzet, there comes a time to defy one's elders. Sometimes sooner is better than later. You've a good hand for this work.”

Tamzet smiled at this praise, which was more than he'd gotten at home or at the Academy. Varda had done him a real favor by putting him here in the kitchen; it was a lot of work, but Ronok was far kinder to him than he had any right to expect. Still... “Sir?”

“Yes, boy?” Ronok said, taking a fresh batch of pureed teral out of the blast chiller.

Tamzet hesitated. What he was about to ask might get him yelled at. “What are you doing here? I mean, what you said to Colonel Ethrak...”

Ronok snorted bitterly, feeding the bin of frozen fruit mash into the big shaver. “My entire Lineage was destroyed, boy. Our name was Chalep'Thora.”

Tamzet gasped. He'd heard of that, all right. Ethrak himself had used that Lineage's demise as an object lesson against treason in class.

“I had nothing to do with my family's crimes, and didn't even know about it until the Ghamparva closed in on us. I had already been declared dead by my family for having the poor taste to have been captured by Gantarash, and then sold to the Rhandinars as being too old and stringy to eat. I was guiltless, harmless, and already in disgrace. The Ghamparva came after me anyway. There was nowhere else to go. If I am to be marked for death by my own people, they might as well have a good reason to do so.” Ronok gave him a grim smile. “I do not regret hiring on with this ship. It's always interesting, and it does occasionally bring up a surprise or two. I am proud to claim Varda as my niece, and that is enough of a revenge on those who destroyed my family to suit me well.”

Tamzet had to brace himself against the table while he processed that. The old Simadhi, adoptive uncle of the _green Paladin?_ A sworn enemy of the Empire and everybody running it? Zarkon would freak if he knew! The only reason that he wasn't doing so himself was because Doc was a very skilled biochemist. “Oh,” he managed weakly, “well, she did say that she was the kitchen slave at first. Um. Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Ronok chuckled. “Old Plosser had a habit of enslaving rescuees. She spent a fair amount of time washing the dishes that wouldn't fit into the cleansers, cleaning the ovens, scrubbing floors, and generally doing scut work. She never complained, and had a fine skill at fixing broken appliances, too. It didn't take me long to become fond of her.”

Tamzet resumed sprinkling spices in thoughtful silence. No, it didn't take long to become fond of that strange little girl, he mused. He'd only met her twice, both times fairly briefly, and he was starting to like her as well. Truth be told, she'd done him good both times.

He was just putting the last servings of spiced teral on a tray when a cheerful voice called out over the noise and bustle of the kitchen. “Ronok! I've got some people here that you need to meet!”

He looked up to see Varda enter, trailed by a much larger person that looked to be of the same race that she was, and by a pair of Galra, one of whom he recognized from a wanted poster. The other was a tall, powerfully-built Simadhi woman that looked peculiarly familiar, even though he'd never seen her before in his life. Varda looked different, somehow; happier, with more... more character in her face than before. Something important had happened to her, and he'd missed it.

“Uncle Ronok,” she said formally, essaying a little bow, “this is Uncle Modhri. Uncle Modhri, Uncle Ronok.”

Both of them looked a little surprised, although the Simadhi woman seemed more amused than anything else, and the other person was staring around greedily at the cooking equipment.

“Modhri,” Ronok said, “Rogue Witch's man?”

Modhri smiled and bowed politely. “The same. And you'd be the last surviving escapee from that slaughter on Simadht. Those bastards raged for weeks when you slipped so handily through their net. Have you been taking good care of my little niece?”

Ronok cast a wry glance at the grinning Paladin. “Yes, despite her bad habits of doing the impossible and trying to hero herself to death. I'm fairly sure that she does that to annoy me. Has she always been so ready to make crude gestures at the Fates, and then demand cookies once she's defeated them?”

Modhri gazed fondly at his unrepentant niece, who was starting to giggle like a girl-cub with mischief in mind. “She lets nothing stand in her way, not even good sense. I am very glad to find her here against the greatest of odds, very much like herself, only more so. I am pleased to call you my brother, Ronok, if you'll have me.”

Ronok's smile took years off of his face, and Tamzet wondered how long it had been since the old man had known proper brotherhood. He reached out a hand and clasped Modhri's gladly. “Instantly, my brother. It would be a joy to do so.”

Modhri grasped Ronok's hand with a look in his eyes that told Tamzet that he was dead to his blood kin as well, and had been so for far too long. “The joy is mine.”

That shared joy didn't stop Ronok from swatting the large person across the knuckles when he reached for one of the big slicers. “Don't touch that, boy. It'll take your fingers right off. Who is this, Varda?”

Varda nudged the large person sharply in the ribs, causing him to look briefly ashamed of himself. “This is Hunk, who's sort of my brother. He's the yellow Paladin and he wants a copy of your cookbook.”

Tamzet couldn't help but to stare. This big, soft-looking, bashful person was the yellow Paladin? It occurred to him that the dossiers that he'd been made to study were wildly inaccurate, or at the very least, not in possession of all of the facts. Ronok eyed Hunk with interest. “You cook too, boy?”

“All the time, which is a good thing, 'cause Coran can't.” Hunk replied. “Altean cuisine tastes gross. Can I please have the recipe for those peanut-butter cookies? Oh, and the one for that stew, that's really good, and maybe the dumplings?”

Ronok smiled. “Perhaps, but you'll have to tell me one thing first.”

“Ask away. Anything for another of those cookies,” Hunk pleaded.

“Then tell me if you're of the same people as Varda here,” Ronok said. “A good four-fifths of my recipe collection isn't good for her, and much of it is lethal to her kind. I need to know which section to let you poke through. It is impolite to kill people with delicious food.”

“You're speaking my language, man,” Hunk said cheerfully. “Yeah, I'm Human, just like her. So's Lance and Keith, though Keith's half-Galra—oh, and we've got a bunch of Galra on the team, too, but Allura's Altean. You wouldn't have any Altean recipes, would you? I know enough to trade.”

“Not a one, although I'd be interested to see what you know of them,” Ronok admitted. “They're very rare these days. Fortunately, your kind—Human, was it?—can eat most things that mine can. Varda, get the red chip-file down out of the recipe cupboard, and the copier's in the cabinet in the back room near your fort. And _yes,_ you can digest those desserts. Try one, I think that you'll like it. The rest of you, get those out front before they melt!”

Hunk retrieved his before anyone could filch it while Varda scampered off to fetch what she'd been sent after, and the kitchen helpers stopped staring interestedly at their boss's guests and hurried to get the iced teral out to the crew. By the time that Varda returned, the bowl was empty, and Hunk had the biggest, happiest smile that Tamzet had ever seen spread across his face. “Ronok,” he said admiringly, “you are an artist. We have got to sit down and talk flavor combos at some point.”

Ronok looked pleased at that, and Modhri waved a reassuring hand. “I have the feeling that our girl will insist that we hang around long enough for that. In any case... Huh. Now where...? Oh. Stop doing that, Blade, and make yourself known to my new brother.”

Helenva had learned the dragons' trick of fading into the background, and even in her Marmoran bodysuit and robe, she was nearly invisible among the cookware. Tamzet swallowed hard when she shifted slightly, reappearing as if by magic. Perhaps it was magic. Either way, she was staring at Ronok with a puzzled frown, as if trying to remember something that she'd forgotten long ago.

Ronok, on the other hand, looked thunderstruck at the sight of her, his eyes wide in disbelief and jaw sagging slightly. “Palvera?” he asked in a thin, plaintive voice. “No. Too young. Helenva. By all the gods, Helenva?”

Helenva stared at him as though he'd just grown a second head. “How do you know my mother's name?” she hissed, “I have never told anyone that!”

Ronok stood very still, but his eyes seemed to glow as he took in every detail of her. “She was my sister. You look so much like your mother. So very much like your mother.”

“I remember an uncle who liked to cook,” she whispered faintly. “He made the best dumplings and pastries. I liked him very much, but Great-Uncle Morac drove him away...”

Ronok's eyes closed, and his face pinched with old pain. “To the military, where I became a ship's cook. I never saw her or you in person again. Palvera's messages informed me that you screeched about it for weeks, and bit Morac's legs bloody as often as you could manage.”

“To punish him. The House cook could not make saldmin-spiced oqua, and none of his dumplings were any good. He was too frightened of Morac and his brothers to dare to play games with me as my Uncle Ronok had. Living in that house was no fun at all anymore, and it was all Morac's fault. I started thinking of running away and finding my lost Uncle.”

Ronok's smile was shaky, but it was there. “You were forever discovering tunnels that nobody else could wiggle down. I remember baiting you out with tamliss candies. You wouldn't come out for anyone else, which drove old Morac absolutely mad. He had plans for you that depended upon your obedience to him.”

Helenva sneered. It was a magnificent sneer, with a properly curled lip that revealed a long canine tooth that gleamed in the light. “I had none, nor would I show him any. I let my brothers bow and scrape before him, but all he got from me was scorn and torn trousers. I made up my mind to go after he had finally threatened to sell me to the Emperor's witch for a lab animal. I had already found a tunnel that led into the deep caverns and was determined to leave that very night. And it was that very night when...”

She choked off, remembered anguish and horror clouding her features. “They blew up the gates and came through every door but my secret tunnel. I remember fire, and screams, and running away. Nothing else is clear to me until the day four years later that the Blade of Marmora dragged me, completely feral and fighting them every step of the way, out of the deep caverns.”

Ronok sagged, bracing his hands on a nearby counter. “Palvera managed to get one brief message out to me before they killed her, warning me of what had happened. Two days later, I was setting up shop in this very kitchen, and even so, I was very nearly too late. I saw the reports. The entire manor cavern had been burned out, along with everyone in it. No survivors. No survivors at all. The Chalep'Thora Lineage was dead, its properties seized, its funds confiscated, and its proud name wiped from the official rolls. Gone. I was used to being officially dead. After that, I felt dead, and did so for years. My only revenge was continuing to live, just to spite them.”

Helenva smirked, although the quirk of her lips was bitter rather than humorous. “My vengeance was somewhat more active. I have never yet left a Ghamparva alive behind me. Give me enough time, and I will see that entire Order dead at my feet.”

Tears dripped onto the counter. “So very much like your mother,” Ronok whispered.

Helenva moved to embrace him, having forgotten entirely that they had an audience. Pidge put the data-chip book and the copier down onto a nearby counter very quietly and herded the others, Tamzet included, out of the room. “Privacy time,” she hissed, shoving Hunk along and flapping her hands at Modhri and Tamzet, who responded a little woodenly from the sheer weight of emotion in the room. “Out! This way, back to the mess hall. Leave them be! Ronok's been needing this for years and years, and he doesn't need anyone watching.”

Fortunately, their exit went unremarked, and so did their return to the mess hall, where Coran was regaling the pirates with one of his more convoluted and unlikely stories about his very silly uncle, the one who couldn't hold his numvill. So distracted were they that Hunk was able to grab another few bowls of only slightly runny teral, and hand them around to Pidge, Modhri, and Tamzet. “Wow,” was all he could say, and the others nodded in silent agreement.

Modhri finished his dessert and set the bowl aside with a sigh. “And that will tie the Blade of Marmora to the Ghost Fleet. Never underestimate the power of the one man who feeds the rest. If Yantilee has any sense... hah. Of course she will. Their skills would be invaluable for freeing her homeworld. Pidge, you and Hunk will want to get to work directly on a device that will churn out your pack tokens. The Blades will be wanting a very great many of those, if this Sector becomes a haven for them. That poor old fellow. Pidge, you did a great good thing when you claimed him as uncle.”

Pidge nodded, sucking reflectively on her spoon. “He's been the best uncle possible. I'm going to miss him, Modhri. I'm a little worried about him, really. He's healthy, but he's not young.”

Modhri's yellow eyes gleamed musingly. “I'll talk to Lizenne and the dragons. Ronok has seen too many disasters during his life to permit him to die just when his sacrifices are paying off, and Helenva needs him too. Oh, dear. I wonder how he'll handle meeting her man.”

Hunk smiled. “She's made it official?”

Modhri chuckled. “I caught them on one of the rock formations in the evirodeck a couple of nights ago, cementing their relationship with a good ear-rub. She'll have him, all right, and he's willing to give her what she wants.”

Pidge blinked at him. “Who is this?”

Hunk sat back in his chair with a sigh. “His name's Kelezar, and he was in the same arena that Keith got sold to. Long story short, they helped each other bust out of there, and we all had to bring him back to the Castle with us or get eaten by dinosaurs. Turns out he's one of Zarkon's grandsons, but he's a neat guy, the dragons like him, and he's hopelessly in love with Helenva. It was, like, love at first sight, and they look really cute together. She's training him to be a Blade, too, so if we're ever able to get rid of his grandpa, they've got a strong, smart heir all ready to go. You'll like him, he's a lot nicer than Lotor.”

There was a faint choking noise from the fourth member of their little group, and they turned to see Tamzet staring in helpless astonishment at them. “Prince Kelezar's dead,” he whispered. “He was accused of treason, and they gave him to Haggar, and no one ever saw him again. My Aunt likes to keep track of the Imperial Lineage, and she was upset for days because he'd disgraced one of her favorite branches of the Family.”

Hunk crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “He was dead, or sort of. One of the Druids put hexes into him that made him into a big, mindless killing machine, and they gave him to a cousin who really liked blood sports. Keith burned those hexes out of him, and he's come back to life. Like it or not, Lotor's gonna have some real competition for the throne later on, and Kelezar's twice his size, looks just like Zarkon, and is getting Super Space Ninja training. No contest. Hey, Pidge, who's this kid, and do I have to yell at someone about that collar?”

“This is Tamzet, and he's one of the soldiers we rescued earlier. The collar's mostly to keep the pirates from bugging him.” Pidge waved a hand at the kitchen door. “The brig was full up, so I gave him to Ronok for safekeeping. Yantilee and I don't like it when people hassle the prisoners, so anyone wearing bonds is off limits.”

Hunk glanced curiously at the young Galra. “Tamzet... I've read that somewhere before. Now where did I see that?”

Modhri quirked a sly eyebrow at Pidge. “The _Blagblah Enquirer._ Our girl took a liking to his ears, poor lad. Were you ever able to live that down, Tamzet?”

Tamzet rolled his eyes. “No, and I probably never will.”

Modhri grinned at him. “Be proud of it, young man. Her expertise with Galra ears has half of the Blade of Marmora terrified of her, and the other half in awe. Kolanth over there hopes to make a closer study of the phenomenon...”

Pidge threw her hands into the air in exasperation and embarrassment. “Oh, _stop!_ It was only one Ghamparva, and Keith doesn't count!”

“It was a Ghamparva Captain,” Modhri pointed out gently, “and Keith is the son of a highly-respected Blade, and the red Paladin besides. You show excellent taste and discernment, even when interrogating an enemy. And you did bite Chesk on the ankle, as a fine, vigorous girl-cub is expected to do.”

Mortified, Pidge slumped down to the table, burying her face in her arms. _“Modhri...!”_

She was saved from further teasing by a sharp voice that cut across the laughter from Coran's end of the room. “Aha! I heard that! There you are, where have you been?”

Pidge looked up to see Nasty bearing down on her, an eager look in his narrow eyes.

“You owe me a story, girl, that scary aunt of yours says you've got it all back.” Nasty pulled over a chair and made himself comfortable. “Speak!”

Pidge dropped her head back down into the circle of her arms again, shoulders shaking and vague snuffling noises emanating from below. It was only when Hunk leaned forward in concern for her when he realized that she was laughing. Hunk reflected that it had been a very long day and that this evil-looking little Unilu must have been the last straw.

“Pidge? Who is this guy, and should I throw him back?” He asked.

The Unilu bared his teeth at him and drew slim fingertips over the hilts of his knives. “Just try it, Fatso. And what kind of name is 'Pidge'? Sounds dumb. I like 'Varda' better.”

There was a faint growling noise from beneath Pidge's arms, and she gave Nasty a fulminating look over her wrists. “Hunk, this is Nasty, my knife instructor. Feel free to insult the hell out of him, it's polite where he comes from. I have several names, you four-armed roughhouser. I started out as Katie Holt, changed it to Pidge Gunderson to steal information that some officious jerk didn't want me to have, became the Green Paladin more or less by accident, and then became Varda, First Mate of the _Osric's Quandary_ because some psychotic witch stole the memory of the other three from me. I like them all just fine because they all mean something important, and I'm not giving you any more than that just yet, Nasty.”

Nasty scowled at her. “Hey, now, we made a deal--”

Suddenly she was standing, leaning over with one hand planted on the table and the other waving a finger under his nose. “That's right, we did, and like a smart girl, I decided to do some research. Hey, Yantilee, do you still have that box I asked you to keep for me?”

Yantilee had been listening with some interest to Zaianne's description of how best to disrupt certain types of ground vehicles, but looked up immediately when he heard Pidge's voice. Noting just who was sitting at her table, he chuckled. “Of course I do. Shall I get it?”

“If you would, please,” Pidge said politely.

Yantilee heaved himself to his feet and ambled out of the mess hall; sensing drama, the crowd's attention turned to Pidge, who stood proudly, arms crossed and features resolute. For his part, Nasty was starting to look a little worried. As well he might; Yantilee, who also had a fine appreciation for drama, returned a few minutes later with a small casket held carefully in all four huge hands. This was placed upon the table in front of Nasty with the greatest of care, revealing it to be made of some sort of ornately-carved greenish wood with hinges and fitments of gilded bronze. Nasty stared at it as though it had come straight out of a legend.

“That's a Contract Chest,” he said weakly into the expectant hush. “A real one. That thing has to be more than three hundred years old. Where in the name of the Teeth of Zog did you find a real zettlewood Contract Chest?”

Pidge grinned at him. “Antique shop on the first port we made after the mutiny. It was on sale, since nobody liked the color. Go on, open it up.”

He gave her a worried look and opened it. The hinges gave a loud and peculiarly musical creak. “All right, where'd you find nintiwick hinge grease? These chests won't make that sound if the hinges aren't kept well-lubed.”

“One of Voan Lenna's engineers uses it as a styling gel and traded me a sample for a packet of cookies,” Pidge replied. “I don't have all night, Nasty.”

Nasty gulped and stared at the contents, oblivious to the mutters and titters from the crowd around them. “Ye gods. Genuine sprittal parchment. Dare I ask where you found that?”

“Maozuh uses it to wrap paslux circuit boards in for storage,” Pidge said. “She's got huge rolls of it.”

Nasty lifted a small bottle of dark fluid out of the chest, popped the cork off, and took a sniff. “The sacred ink! From the Hormanak Temple Archive, or I'm an orpluk's sister!”

“Rh'attz uses it as a hand lotion,” Pidge said. “He says it keeps his hands baby-soft.”

Nasty boggled a little at that, and said weakly, “Well, that explains some of the smell. Ah, and here's the sealing wax. Genuine paspoon, I assume?”

Pidge nodded. “Imlosh says that there's nothing better for conditioning the upholstery of the pilot's seats in some of the fighter craft. Can't let the pilots get chapped butts while blowing up the enemy.”

“Of course not,” Nasty said ironically, placing the little block of pink wax carefully aside. “Oh, and here's a genuine seal, carved from red alabaster, Hamrick Valley stone, if I'm not mistaken. In what completely incongruous place did you find this thing? It should be in a museum!”

“It was in a collection,” Pidge told him. “Haswick collects antique meat tenderizers, and he thought— _no,_ Nasty, he never used it. Calm down.”

Nasty sniffed suspiciously at the seal, glared at Haswick, who waved back cheerfully, and sighed disgustedly when he saw another rare item. “Dare I ask where you got the pradley-feather quill? It has been strictly illegal to take those birds or any portion of those birds offworld for longer than even my granny can remember.”

Pidge blinked in confusion. “You mean you didn't know about that feather fan that's been sitting in the treasury? Maozuh says it's been in there since before she hired on.”

“Of course I knew!” Nasty retorted. “I just thought that it was a fake, is all. You mean to say that it isn't?”

Pidge shook her head. “Doc checked. It's real. Now have a look at the contract I wrote up, okay? It's fairly simple, but it should do the trick.”

Nasty lifted out a thick scroll that, when the ribbon was untied, unrolled off the edge of the table and down onto the floor. Pidge had very carefully inscribed the terms and conditions in the common crew's language, and Nasty went over every single symbol, muttering disparaging comments on her lack of sophistication in legalese, and his vocabulary turned decidedly salty when he found that she had left him no loopholes at all. “You call this a legal document?”

“Yes,” Pidge said firmly, “it's mine. Now sign there, there, and there... _no,_ Nasty, your full name, and your Clan name, too. Come to think of it, I should sign my other names as well.”

Nasty grimaced at her. “I don't have a Clan name, I was disowned before they threw me off the planet. Maybe I should just write in _Osric's Quandary_ instead, eh?”

Pidge thought about that. “No, just add it to the rest. I'll do that, too. Go on, just do it so we can both get the next step over with.”

Nasty groaned and complied, scrawling a long and convoluted signature while Pidge borrowed a crewman's lighter to heat up the wax block with. She then added her addendums to her own signature, and then dug around in the chest for one last small item. It gleamed like a splinter of starshine as she handed it to him. Nasty examined the thin, spiral-carved object in his hand and ran another over his eyes. “And where did you get a real Pact Needle? Pure platinum, too.”

Pidge waved a hand at the riveted crowd again. “Zoallam had picked it up years ago in a grab bag of other pins, and was using it as a toothpick. Calm down, Nasty, I cleaned and resharpened it. It's fine.”

Nasty emitted a gargling groan and waved all four fists furiously. “Is _nothing_ sacred to you lot?” he demanded.

Pidge laughed. “This, coming from an Unilu? A throwback pirate Unilu? In a ship full of other pirates? Nasty, this whole Fleet is like a giant, economy-sized Motley Platter with extra drama sauce and a side order of Doom Moose. We've got a guy who worshiped a demonic toaster oven, and another whose hells are full of fluffy bunnies! Sanctity is a matter of personal opinion. Just do it, will you? See, I've already done mine.”

Nasty heaved a huge sigh and pricked one finger with the needle, spilling one small drop of blood next to a similar blot at the bottom of the scroll. He studied the mark and said, “Huh. Red?”

“Iron-based hemoglobin,” Pidge replied. “Yours is green.”

“Copper-based.” Nasty said, cleaning the needle on his shirt and dripping the softened wax over the paired stains. “Your people are weird.”

“So are yours. Here's the seal.”

The faint _thump_ of the seal on the parchment was the only sound in the room. Nasty carefully rolled the scroll up and placed it in the chest along with the rest of the paraphernalia. The hinges squeaked musically again as Nasty closed it up and latched it, and then fixed Pidge with a look that was half exasperation and half pride. “All right, you scheming minx. You're officially an honorary Unilu for one month, in return for a backstory that had better be worth it.”

“Yay!” Pidge said with a girlish giggle that made Tamzet stare. “And now that I remember who my family is, they're officially Unilu, too! That means that I'm going to cute you into teaching us all of your secret arts.”

Nasty took a step back. “You wouldn't!”

“Oh, yes I will! Hey, Chulatt, I need some backup!”

The smallest of Allura's mice squeaked agreeably and scampered over. Pidge picked her up and cupped her in her hands, then turned the most luminous, innocent, adorable expression possible on Nasty, batting long eyelashes over limpid orbs of glowing amber. The mouse did exactly the same thing in perfect unison with the Human, and the effect was greatly amplified. The air around them practically turned pink and sparkly with pure platonic cuteness, and the hapless alien let out a howl of anguish and dropped to the floor. _“Aaagh!_ How does she _do_ that?” he wailed. “She's too pink and doesn't have enough arms, and I still can't resist! All right, all right, I'll do it, just make her stop!”

“Good,” Pidge said, putting the mouse down. “Is there any more of that iced teral?”

Modhri respectfully fetched her another bowl.

Allura rubbed at her face and gave her teammate a stern look. “Pidge, have you just invited an Unilu for a month long stay in the Castle? We are going to have to leave soon, you know.”

“Yup,” Pidge replied around a mouthful of alien fruit smoothie, completely unabashed. “He's going to be teaching all of us a lot of really important things. All we'll have to do to keep him out of your jewelry box is to have the ship's fabber run up a set of silverware.”

“Silverware?” Allura asked, surprised.

“Twelve settings!” Nasty demanded, pulling himself up off of the floor. “Pure silver, and no monograms, it's rude.”

Coran twirled his mustache knowledgeably. “Oh, yes, Princess, it's a very ancient tradition. The host breaks up a set of silverware and hides it all around the house when guests arrive, and if the guest can find all of the pieces, he can keep it. It's to test the skills of the guest, you see, and a mark of respect for them, and it keeps the guest busy and mostly out of trouble during his visit. The better houses would include napkin rings in the set as well, although it was considered poor sport to include individual jitlan tongs in the place settings. Fiddly little things, and far too liable to put a hole in the guest's pocket.”

“That's right, although these days the hosts just hand the guest the whole thing in a box,” Nasty said sourly. “That's the Galra trying to 'civilize' us again, damn them. A lot of fine old traditions have been lost because the Governors they've stuck us with have no sense of humor. They don't bother to learn local custom and get all bent out of shape when we won't comply with theirs. You just hide those forks really well, Lady, I'm good at what I do.”

“I will turn the project over to a team of experts, then.” Allura smiled sweetly at him and then turned to the mice. “Do you think that you can give this greasy little pirate a run for his money?”

The mice squeaked agreeably, and the blue one let out a small, high-pitched, but instantly recognizable evil laugh. The challenge had been accepted. Nasty gave the tiny creature a look of deep distrust, and those closest to the pseudorodents edged away. A smile spread itself across Nasty's face then, and he looked a good deal more cheerful. “This is going to be fun. All right, girl, tell me everything.”

“You asked for it.” Pidge finished her dessert and leaned back in her chair. “It all started a few years ago on the planet Earth when my father and brother were sent on a science mission to the distant moon of Kerberos...”

 

It was very, very late by the time she and her odd little family had finished that tale. Captain and crew alike had listened to the long, convoluted, unlikely, and often very strange story in fascinated silence. Tamzet didn't know what to think as he helped the kitchen assistants gather up the dirty dishes afterward. He'd known of the Lions, of course, and of how they could come together to form the greatest weapon ever built. He hadn't known that they were entities in their own right, and so mysterious that even the man who had seen them built didn't know more than a fraction of their secrets. The pilots knew only slightly more than that, and only as much as the Lions themselves had been willing to teach them. He hadn't known that the Emperor had been a Paladin, or that he had led the previous team to disaster. He hadn't known that Druids were made things, or how they were made, or what Haggar got up to in that lab of hers. The particulars of Teludav spacedrives had been a mystery to him, as had the Balmeran crystals, and so much more. He was privately grateful for the pill that he'd been given earlier, because if he had heard all of that in the stressed-out and shocky frame of mind that he'd been brought to the Stronghold in, well...

_I probably would have caused a scene,_ he thought to himself as he slotted plates into the cleanser. As it was, he was exhausted by the day's events and yearned for a corner to curl up in. Nevertheless, he helped get the cleanup done; it would be one less thing to do in the morning. He paused after thinking that, propping himself against the counter and puzzling at that odd thought. He knew that he should be plotting his escape, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do so and wasn't sure why. Any of his superiors would blame it on the drug that he'd been given. He had the uneasy suspicion that he'd taken a liking to Ronok, and was enjoying his cooking lessons more than he should be. Well, Varis did say that the pirates might keep a few of the prisoners.

“You're out on your feet, boy,” Ronok's voice murmured to him, and a pale-furred hand came to rest on Tamzet's shoulder. “Come on, I've set up a cot in one of the pantries. You need rest.”

Tamzet looked up. Ronok looked wrung-out and had been weeping, but there was an ease about him that there hadn't been before. “Thank you, sir. Did you and Helenva work things out?”

Ronok smiled warmly. “We did. She's of my family all right, she has the scent of her mother. Her boss will be told about what has been going on out here, and if he plays his cards right, he'll have a berth for his boys among the Ghost Fleet whenever they should need it. Hah. He'll probably have a hairball when he finds out what concessions Varda has wrung out of the Hoshinthra. She has a habit of doing the impossible, does my girl.”

Tamzet remembered with painful clarity how she had saved his life earlier. “Yes. Um... will you want me helping you tomorrow?”

Ronok nodded. “With all the extra mouths to feed? Oh, yes. You're a good worker, boy, and I aim to keep you as long as I can. Varda won't be here to help for much longer, you see.”

He would miss her, Tamzet saw, but he wouldn't pine away now that he had his true niece back. Still... “Sir? Varis said that some of us would be allowed to stay, if the Captain allowed it. If the Prince has declared us dead, will I have that choice?”

Ronok nodded. “This is a free ship. None of you will be harmed or sold, although some of your officers might be ransomed, if any such are offered. Once we're at a place where we can get the necessary information, and that can handle so many expatriates, you'll be allowed the choice of whether to leave or to stay. All of you will be allowed to sober up before you make that choice, of course. Doc might not have to bother with ethics committees anymore, but he's got his own set to keep him in line. Entertaining ideas already, boy?”

Tamzet nodded. “It's only been for one day, but I like it here better than the Academy.”

Ronok snorted and might have offered an opinion, but someone called his name. They both turned, and were surprised to see Lizenne standing by the kitchen doors. “Yes?” Ronok asked.

The tall, lean woman moved toward them with a grace that Tamzet had associated with dancers and professional swordfighters. There was a wildness about her, and a potency in her gaze that made something deep in Tamzet's instincts sit up and pay attention, but her interest was centered on the older man. “Modhri had a word with me, and a word with the dragons,” she said quietly, “I've been sent to have a look at you, for the sake of the children.”

Her smile flickered like fire, and Ronok grunted in surprise. “A look, my Lady?”

She nodded. “You've been under massive stresses for much of your life, and if half of what Varda told me was accurate, I'm surprised that you've lasted this long. With your permission, I can ascertain the extent of the damage, and perhaps mend it.” She snorted. “Both of your nieces practically picked me up and tossed me through the doors, I'll have you know. I doubt that I'll be allowed to leave until I do this.”

Ronok puffed a laugh. “Go ahead then. Just leave all of the bits where you find them.”

She lifted a hand and laid it over his heart, murmuring something soft and strange under her breath as she did so. A frown creased her brow, and she  _tsked_ disapprovingly. “Can't have that,” she muttered, and began to chant words that left golden trails on the air. Ronok gasped as a flash of yellow light burst beneath her hand, and staggered back against a counter, blinking in astonishment. He wasn't the only one, for Tamzet watched with eyes like an owl's as the some of the graying leached out of his fur, and some of the lines vanished from his face.

“Thirty years, perhaps a little more,” Lizenne said, sagging a little, but still steady on her feet. “That's how much time your wretched uncle and those filthy Ghamparva stole from you, plus the isolation you suffered while serving on this ship. You also had an incipient blood cancer starting to develop, which I've just erased. You have those years back now, Ronok, clean and healthy. Do not waste them.”

“I... I won't. How can I, having found Helenva?” Ronok said breathlessly, and his voice was stronger now as well. “I hope that you didn't sacrifice your own years for me.”

She laughed. “That's a myth, man. You can lend another person your strength, but not your time. Stress suffered over a protracted period of time causes damage and wear on internal organs and neurological tissue that no healpod can repair; it's a form of fatigue, not an injury. I merely healed that fatigue, leaving those tissues and organs sparkling-new. You'll have enough time to rejoice in Helenva's children and perhaps in Varda's, and to watch them grow up to awe the universe. I can think of no better way to thank the man who was instrumental in keeping my niece alive.”

“Nor can I,” Ronok said, and bowed to her. “I thank you, my Lady. What will you do now?”

Lizenne yawned. “First, we will sleep. It's been a ridiculously long day for all of us. After that, we will finish stripping the Stronghold, and then we shall probably go our own ways. Or not. I've never been any good at scrying out the future. Too fixed on the present anyway to care. And presently, adoptive brother, your nieces want one more hug.”

They certainly did. Tamzet watched as Ronok was embraced by two very different young ladies, and he couldn't help but envy the old man a little. His own family was scattered far and wide, and there was no guarantee that he would ever see them again. The two Galra women left a little time later, but Pidge stayed behind.

“Not going with them, Varda?” Ronok asked.

Pidge yawned hugely. “It's 'Pidge' now, Ronok, though you can still call me Varda if you like. I'm not going anywhere until we're done here—that way they can't steal me away while I'm asleep. Besides, I'm not ready to leave you yet. Where are you going to put Tamzet?”

“A cot in the third pantry, for now,” Ronok tapped his teeth musingly with one fingernail. “I can move him elsewhere if you like.”

“Nah. Too tired to care,” she said around another enormous yawn, and shot a narrow look at the boy. “You behave yourself, all right? No funny stuff or I'll kick your butt.”

Tamzet gave her a shy smile. “You sound like my sister.”

“Did you try any funny stuff with her?”

“Not after what she did to one of my cousins, no.”

“Right. I'm her, times a million, with a big robot cat. G'night.”

Tamzet watched her stumble off toward the pantries, mildly perplexed. “The First Mate sleeps in the pantry?”

Ronok chuckled. “In the thelwisk seeds, yes, by her own preference. It smells nice, she's the first to breakfast every time, and she feels safe there. Will you take her warning seriously?”

Tamzet nodded, and yawned. “Yes, sir. I'm too tired to try anything, I owe her too much, and she really does have a big robot cat. I'm not stupid, sir.”

“Good boy. Your cot is this way...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, good news and bad news.
> 
> BAD NEWS: Not only does work continue to be insane for me, between being understaffed, the store going through a conversion to a new network, and the lady who does the work schedules deciding I should never ever leave the building even to sleep, but Spanch had her own wave of misfortune. Her computer, where we have been storing and editing our fiction, up and died last week. Until she gets a new computer and a friend of ours who knows how to transfer data from the dead computer to the new one finds time to come by, we have no idea how much we've lost. This on top of me catching a cold that makes me sound like I swallowed the entire cast of Battletoads and Spanch's own battles with what happens when doctors let their communication networks fail (the medical issue wasn't serious, but the communication breakdown caused So Much Chaos) basically made the month of April into a time of pure evil.
> 
> GOOD NEWS: Spanch had a thumb drive and a backup hard drive. While the hard drive is being a little b***h and not letting us access it on the other computers in the house (yet another task for our tech-savvy friend), the thumb drive has all of the rest of Piratology and a good chunk of the arc after it. Thus we could post this current chapter. While the time between updates will depend heavily on my work schedule, we will be able to continue to update! Once Piratology is posted in its entirety, we will probably go on a short hiatus until Spanch can get her new computer and see what can be recovered from the old machine. With luck, it will be everything, and the hiatus will be minimal.
> 
> In other news, I'll be attending Anime Central on the weekend of the 17th, so if anyone else is going and wants to say hi, I'll be the one wandering around in a baggy t-shirt with a fox purse and a name tag that says Koko-chan on it. The one standing at the artist booths and grabbing all the Pidge merch I can find. Yup.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story and encouraged us, and an extra thank you for being so patient during this rather nasty and annoying set of events. See you next chapter!


	29. A Royal Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, a chapter right before I leave for Anime Central! Woo, go me! *falls over*

Chapter 29: A Royal Invitation

 

Large as the Stronghold was, they had only been in residence for a couple of weeks, and repairing the _Quandary_ had taken up a very great deal of the parts that had been stored there. With so many people helping, the place was cleared out and rigged to blow by the end of the following day. As always, Yantilee was the last out, although she had company this time. The Paladins were with her, and Lizenne, and a few other trusted crewmen. At the moment, they stood atop the roof of the main cavern so that Yantilee could take one last nostalgic look at the old place before it was blown to Weblum kibble.

“I'll miss it,” she said, her mild voice a little sad. “It's held me safe five times now when things got too hot, and kept the _Quandary_ from capture and ruin far more often than that. It's going to be hard to replace.”

“You have no other safe ports?” Allura asked.

Yantilee shook her head. “Not like this one. The dark ports value the _Quandary_ for the business and loot we bring them, and the smuggler's havens even more so, but they're as mercenary as they come. It's not uncommon for them to send anonymous tips to Imperial pirate-hunters if the captains or crew offend the locals, or if the bounty's big enough. They're not always reliable as to the quality or availability of parts and supplies, either. We were planning to free Walmanech from the Galra and make that our base of operations, but Lotor happened. He may yet happen again, as he strikes me as the vindictive sort.”

“Not with the Doom Moose hanging around,” Hunk observed. “She's still up there, y'know, poking around the wrecks and just waiting for him to come back. Creepy lady.”

“No argument there,” Yantilee sighed. “Eh, we'll manage. Losing the Stronghold is a setback, though. Not a crippling one, just inconvenient.”

“Why Walmanech?” Lance asked. “Does it have all the good stuff?”

“No,” Yantilee replied. “It did, up until about thirty years ago, when the Galra imprisoned the royal family and enslaved the planet. What they are is centrally-located, badly abused, and severely downtrodden. The idea was to run off the oppressors, free the queen and her family, and then help them rebuild. That way, when we asked for their support, they'd be obligated to agree. A little underhanded perhaps, but it would benefit us both. My own homeworld's fairly close to them, you see, and also the property of the Empire. I wish to have a word with those who betrayed my people.”

Her tone was mild, but Lizenne knew better than to believe that there was no anger in her. “Yes; 'Fire', I expect. Would it help if I apologized?”

Yantilee cocked her an amused glance. “No. It's not the Galra that I'm really angry with. It's the weak-spined officials in the governments of our former allies and subject peoples who accepted the bribes and gave in to the invader's bullying, and the ambitious ones in Elikonia's and the Colonies' governments who saw the invasion as a way to seize power for themselves. We could have held the Empire off, you see, if those idiots hadn't failed us. We might even have rallied our other neighbors into a proper coalition and given Zarkon something to worry about other than your Lions. It was rumored that one of our explorers had located a Hoshinthra colony. If we could have coaxed the Mystics into helping, who knows what we could have achieved?”

Pidge reached up and patted her arm. “I think that we're doing fine with what we've got now.”

Yantilee hummed fondly at her. “Yes, but we've taken losses that we can't easily make up for. We need a base, and soon.”

Keith gazed thoughtfully up at his Lion, which gleamed in the pale sunlight. “I dunno, guys, want to hang around long enough to help these guys free another planet? It might be good practice for when we go after that last Altean colony. I get the feeling that we'll be doing a lot of that sort of thing, anyway.”

“Actually...” Pidge said slowly, remembering something important. “I think that I might have something better. We'll still free Walmanech, but this'll let us do it faster and better, if we can manage it. Allura, how close are we to Halidex?”

“Halidex?” Allura asked. “Not all that far. Why?”

“Are they within comm range?” Pidge asked.

Lizenne nodded. “Within range of the _Chimera's_ comm, certainly, and the Castle's are perhaps a little better. Why?”

“Because their king owes me a favor. Do either of you have a communicator on you?”

Lance boggled at her a little. “Wait, wait, a _King_ owes you a favor?”

The storytelling session the previous night had not gone into the events after the Paladins' first, disastrous encounter with Lotor's fleet. Yantilee patted Pidge's shoulder. “Oh, yes. A fine example of heroism it was, and she came damned close to dying because of it. You really think you can pull that big a favor out of them? They did have a usurping overlord to deal with, and that can run expensive.”

“You nearly _died?”_ Keith demanded, “When was this?”

“A while ago,” Pidge replied impatiently, “that was before the mutiny--”

“ _Mutiny?”_ Hunk squawked.

“Will you idiots cool it?” Pidge snapped. “Yes, a mutiny! The previous captain was a _kushmerga porf blagget_ of the first water, so we took his head off and Yantilee took over his job. I had to rescue an entire royal family before that happened, though, and he wasn't happy about it, okay?”

Lance gave her a disapproving look. “You've grown hard, Pidge. You need more team bonding.” He flung his arms wide and spread a silly smile over his face. “Let me love you, Pidge!”

Pidge gurgled in disgust and skittered a few steps away, making warding gestures with both hands. “Back! Back!”

“Oh, you're no fun,” Lance said, and then turned to the others. “Allura! Let me love you!”

“Touch me and I break your hands.”

“Oh, so cruel, and yet, so beautiful,” Lance said tragically. “Keith?”

“Don't even go there, man.”

“Didn't expect it, but it was worth a shot. Hunk?”

Hunk grinned. “Sure.”

Lance wrapped Hunk up in a huge bear hug, which Hunk returned cheerfully. Lance extricated a hand and waved an accusing finger at the others. “See? This is what team bonding's all about. I'm terribly disappointed in all of you.”

Pidge rubbed a hand over her face in exasperation, knowing full well that her Captain and crewmen were watching this with considerable amusement. “Oh, all right! You can hug me.”

“Yay!” Lance said, pulling himself loose from Hunk and sweeping her up into his arms, holding on tight. “We really missed you, Pidge. I'm going to want to hear about everything that happened to you here, and probably want to hit someone for some of it.”

Pidge snorted in amusement and patted his head. “I missed you, too, even if I didn't know it. I'll tell you the whole story later, but pretty much everybody who needed hitting has already been hit.”

A beep from Yantilee's belt-comm interrupted their tender moment, and Haswick's voice came through, sounding slightly perplexed. _“Captain? Just got a call from Tchak.”_

“Go ahead,” Yantilee said.

“ _The_ Night Terror _decided out of the blue to give him a present—it seems that the search-and-rescue teams weren't quite as thorough as they should've been. One of those derelicts still had a live one on it. Not a Galra, but a Juskoran prisoner. They didn't want him, and Tchak doesn't either. It's Plosser, boss. I think we now know how Lotor found out about the Stronghold.”_

Yantilee chuffed, but Lance suddenly had an armful of small furious wildcat. _“Plosser!”_ she squawked, flailing madly to get loose. “I'll kill him!”

“Tell them to bring him down,” Yantilee said calmly above the scuffle. “I want a word with the old fool, and Varda wants her portion of his carcass.”

“ _Ha! I'll bet she does. They're on their way, Captain.”_

A few minutes later, a small lander set itself down on the roof a polite distance from the Lions, and a pair of Tchak's bigger crewmen escorted a battered and unhappy-looking prisoner toward them. He was badly bruised, his clothing was torn, he walked as though he ached, and there was a distinct whiff of moldy cheese about him, but it was definitely Plosser. Lance had a very difficult time of it holding on to Pidge, who seemed determined to break the alien down for stew meat; to tell the truth, one or two of the other Paladins wouldn't have minded seeing her do so, but Lizenne cut that off short with a peal of delighted laughter and a peculiar request.

“Pull his shirt up,” she said, nodding at the guards. “There's something that I want to check.”

“Ma'am?” one of the guards asked, surprised.

“Just do it, dear. Plosser's a common name among Juskorans, but piracy isn't a common profession for them. Pull it up, I say.”

They shrugged and complied, eliciting a grunt of protest from their captive and stares of disbelief from the others. Plosser had marks on his belly that hadn't been put there by nature, and the Paladins had seen something like that before. Just beneath his ribcage, Plosser bore two long scars, and his potbelly bore ten more, five on a side, that slashed diagonally upward. Lizenne laughed again, and bared her teeth in a fearsome grin at the frightened pirate. “It _is_ you! I'd thought I'd finished you off, you old bilge-scraper, for I'd spilled your guts on the deck handily enough. I wonder who was sufficiently loyal to you to get you to a healpod in time? And you still haven't learned proper manners around the ladies either, if I'm any judge of character.”

Pidge stared back and forth between them in disbelief, then got Lance to let go of her by pinching the webbing between his thumb and forefinger hard. Ignoring his pained yelp, she stepped forward, staring at the scars. “Seriously?” she asked. _“Seriously?_ I knew that you were stupid enough to nearly kill the most valuable slave you ever got your hands on, Plosser, but you _made a pass_ at a Galra female?”

“Um...” Plosser said, staring in unvarnished horror at Lizenne.

Lizenne smirked. “It was a little more serious than a pass, dear. He'd heard a few rumors about the habits of independent young Galra ladies, and decided to see if they were true. Most of them weren't, but the one about the thumbnails certainly was. Whatever happened to your ship, Plosser? You used to swear to anyone who would listen that the _Palaburn's Bane_ was yours forever, and that either it would die or you would, rather than the pair be parted. You're still alive, Plosser, and I didn't see the _Bane_ among the Fleet.”

“Who cares what happened to it, he's dead anyway,” Pidge growled, reaching for her bayard. “I'll have his--”

Yantilee brought a hand down between them. “His head, and no more than that, First Mate.”

To her teammate's surprise, Pidge backed down at these words, but not without protest. Yantilee only smiled at her peeving. “Think of it this way, Varda; as much as you might have suffered and lost at his hands, the Royal House of Halidex stood to suffer and lose far more. How do you think they might react if you were to offer them his wretched little life as a sweetener on the deal?”

Pidge smiled. It was not a nice smile, and Plosser cringed to see it. “It's a thought. I still get his head, though.”

“Of course. In a moment.” Yantilee turned to Plosser and fixed the ex-captain with a level stare. “Plosser, how did you wind up in Galra hands? As vindictive a little gorp-roach as you are, I do not believe that you would have betrayed your ship so handily.”

Plosser bared his teeth at her with some of his old defiance. “I did not. I was betrayed to them by an informant, and they took me by force. I was tortured, no thanks to you. I do not give Galra anything willingly... unlike some I could name.”

Yantilee did not so much as bat an eyelash at that weak sally. “There are Galra, and then there are Galra. The trick is telling them apart. You were still careless enough to be spotted, Plosser. Let me make a guess; I assume you went to Muntri's Haven to celebrate your getaway.”

Plosser goggled at her. “How did you know?”

Yantilee sneered. “Please. It's right in the middle of the other planets you visited, certain of your hangers-on retired there, and it's the only place in the region where squails can be easily obtained. There is also a small but growing population of Palspurs living there, and that alone should have warned you off of the place; that lot have been working for the Empire for eons. Who do you think sold my own lost command out to them? You're getting old, Plosser, and you've lost too many heads to plan beyond a few weeks into the future, if that. Be glad that I'm allowing Varda to take only one more, and if you're lucky, the Halidexans won't want much more than that. Paltry weregild indeed for the lives that were lost because of you, and for the loss of the Stronghold. Gentlemen.”

The two guards forced Plosser to his knees and Yantilee stepped gracefully out of the way. Pidge stepped up smartly, chose her spot with care, and with a kick that a professional linebacker would have been proud of, sent Plosser's cranium flying.

“Pidge, you just kicked his head off!” Lance yelped.

“Yes, and now I'm going to kick it again,” she declared, and suited the word to the deed.

The detached skull described a textbook arc and landed squarely in a pothole. One of Yantilee's crewmen waved his arms in the air and shouted “Gooooaaal!”

Pidge ran after it and began dancing around it in circles, waving her arms about and gesturing in patterns that would have given her Italian ancestors a heart attack. The others watched in perplexity.

“Um... Pidge?” Keith asked, “What are you doing?”

“Hexing dance,” she replied with grim satisfaction. “I am damning his miserable soul to the Hell of Fluffy Bunnies for an eternity or two. Drinmar? Show him that scroll before he asks another dumb question.”

Allura flinched aside as a lanky brown fellow with three eyes and a frightening grin popped up at her elbow and unrolled a small scroll, revealing the image of something fluffy, long-eared, and horrible. All four Paladins recoiled with exclamations of disgust.

“Yeah,” Drinmar drawled, rolling the scroll up and putting it away. “Some kind of crazy-weird world you've got, where these manifest as cutesy herbivores. Demons, the lot of 'em. Shove over, Varda, I didn't like him either.”

“The more, the merrier,” Pidge replied, making room and waving a hand at her teammates. “Guys, you too, this jerk could have gotten you all killed, and nearly got me killed a bunch of times. Wait'll I tell you about his ugly pet.”

The other four Paladins glanced at each other, shrugged, and joined in with varying degrees of embarrassment.

“I can't believe that I'm doing this,” Lance grumbled after a while. “This is weird, Pidge. You've just killed a guy and now we're dancing around his head.”

“He's not dead,” Drinmar puffed before Pidge could speak. “Juskorans've got two brains, and the little one's detachable. Neat survival trait. Their bunnies've got these huge sickle-like mandibles that can take a head right off, so they need it. Handy for the rest of us, too, 'cause Juskorans can be really unpleasant people. Cap'n's looking bored, Varda.”

Pidge humphed and stopped dancing, to her teammate's relief. “All right, I feel better now. Before something else happens, Allura, do you have a communicator on hand?”

Allura unclipped a small handheld device from her belt. “Coran made me take it along just in case. Hold on a moment. Coran?”

“ _Yes, Princess?”_ Coran's voice sounded in their helmet-comms.

“I need a connection to the Royal Residence of Halidex; can you patch that through to my communicator?” she asked. “Apparently, they owe Pidge a favor.”

“ _Um. Not as such. That people hadn't really gotten the hang of spaceflight yet, back in the day. Zaianne, do you have any idea...”_ there was a mutter of voices in the background, and what sounded like a pithy comment. _“Hold on just a moment, Kolanth's been there a time or two, and he's working on it. Ah, there we go. Just activate your comm, and you should be put through right into the Palace network.”_

“Thank you,” Allura replied and pushed a button on the comm, then handed it off to Pidge.

The screen it produced was blank for a few moments, and then a swirl of color bloomed, blurred, and resolved into the image of a Halidexan; unfortunately, it wasn't one of Pidge's rescuees. This individual was a bony, supercilious female with faded spots, suspicious eyes, and a large , beaky nose that looked like it had been sharpened recently, perhaps in a knife grinder. That magnificent prow certainly suited her voice, which could have taken all of the bristles off a live boar hog. _“State your business, please,”_ she said nasally, and Lance, Hunk, and Keith drew back in mild horror.

“Whoa. Demon receptionist,” Hunk muttered.

“What's she doing outside of a New York insurance agency?” Lance asked.

Pidge ignored them. “I need to talk to the King,” she said, trying not to be daunted by that gimlet glare. “It's important.”

The receptionist wasn't impressed. _“You and two hundred and seventy-five other individuals, families, and industries, miss. There has been a recent political upheaval that has caused a great deal of chaos. Unseating a usurper is rarely a quiet affair. State your business—and it had better be legitimate business—or hang up, please.”_

Pidge huffed, beginning to be annoyed; she'd had a student councilor once who could have been this woman's twin sister, and she and the councilor had hated each other on sight. “A few months ago, the King and his family was taken by pirates. I was instrumental in helping them escape, and they owe me a favor.”

The receptionist still wasn't impressed. _“There have been seven hundred and thirty-two calls of that nature to this office in the past six hours alone. Unless you can substantiate your claim, kindly take your claim and drop it into the Pit of Churlough. Exactly what proof do you have?”_

Pidge began to steam, flashbacks of high school confrontations causing her blood to boil. “Now, look here, lady--”

“ _Hey! I know that voice!”_

The receptionist jerked around, and then tipped off of her chair with a squawk as a richly-dressed young male shoved her aside. This was the Crown Prince, and Pidge smiled to see him looking well. He certainly seemed happy to see her. _“It_ is _you! The pirate girl who rescued us—you survived! Oh, you've gotten that collar off, too.”_

Pidge grinned at him. “Yup. Nice to see you too, your Highness. You've grown since the last time I saw you.”

“ _Yeah, I had a growth spurt right after we got home. It's no fun, none of my clothes fit now.”_ He extended one arm, revealing a lot of wrist at the end of a too-short sleeve. _“We've been too busy to think about small stuff like that, though. How have you been? Oh, wait, you'll want to talk to my father. Hold on, let me get everybody in here first. Litta, take a break. Dad! Mom! Everybody! It's_ her!”

Litta the Demon Receptionist picked herself up off of the floor, elevated her pre-sharpened nose, gave Pidge the withering glare of a Guardian of the Gate that has been thwarted in her duty, and stalked off in a huff. She was replaced a few moments later by the King, the Queen, the Prince, and the three younger royal children, all of whom were happy to see her. The King looked a little worn, she noticed, but that was only natural. After all, he'd spent the last several months working very hard to keep his whole world from collapsing into chaos. His smile was genuine, though, and his tired eyes were warm. _“It is good to see you again, young Hero, although I wish that I could have greeted you under better circumstances.”_

Pidge's brow wrinkled in concern. “Still having trouble with your brother?”

“ _No, that's passed. He and my cousins have been captured and dealt with, as much as it pained me to do so.”_ The King rubbed wearily at his face. _“They are no longer a problem. Cleaning up the mess they made is proving to be far more difficult, and the Governor that has been placed in charge of us has been making unreasonable demands. I assume that you wish to call in that favor I promised you; I hope that you will be circumspect in your desires. Putting down a usurpation is, alas, expensive, and our coffers are a bit low at the moment.”_

Pidge waved a reassuring hand. “I don't want money. I just need a safe port for some friends of mine.”

The King gave her an intrigued look, although the Queen looked dubious. _“Friends?”_ she asked. _“What friends are these?”_

“Um...” Pidge said uncertainly; this was the hard part. “The Ghost Fleet.”

There were exclamations of shock and disbelief from the royal family. _“The Ghost Fleet?”_ the King yelped. _“The_ whole _Fleet? Even the_ Night Terror?”

“The same,” Pidge replied. “We got into a big fight with Prince Lotor's fleet and wound up having to go to ground to make repairs. Unfortunately, he discovered where we were hiding. We managed to drive him off, but it was a close thing, and our Stronghold isn't habitable anymore. We need a place where we can make repairs, offload loot, get some shore leave, and not get shot at.”

“ _You... you fought off the Crown Prince of the Galra Empire,”_ the King said shakily. _“The last we'd heard from that maniac, he had added two planet-busters to his armada._ He _was forced to retreat?”_

Pidge nodded. “He really does not like being chased around by Hoshinthra. Even so, we had help. I never got to introduce myself properly to you. I am Katie 'Pidge' Holt, First Mate aboard the _Osric's Quandary,_ and Paladin of the green Lion.”

The screen was one solid boggle. _“Ye gods. Not just impossible, but legendary as well,”_ the King muttered. _“Are you telling me that Voltron itself has allied with the Ghost Fleet?”_

“Sort of. They sheltered me for six months until the other Paladins could find me. Long story, tell you later.” Pidge smiled wryly at them. “Are you at least willing to consider talking to the Admiral about it? The Ghost Fleet is largely self-maintaining, and I can guarantee that they'll protect you from anything that the Governor sends against your people.”

The King blinked. _“Young lady, were you aware that my world used to have one of the best space navies in the Sector before the Galra wiped it out? Over a hundred thousand ships of the Line, overwhelmed by a force that they outnumbered ten to one. You are offering us a new navy, one that has beaten an elite force soundly, and essentially for free.”_

Pidge waggled a hand conditionally. “Sort of. We're going to need the occasional resupply and repair, and new crew and things like that.”

“ _Compared to the cost of rebuilding our entire military, it is nothing.”_ the Queen said decisively. _“There is one condition, however; if we are to embark upon negotiations in good faith, then we demand that Captain Plosser be turned over to us. He has committed a number of very serious crimes not only against us, but against countless others. I will not be dissuaded from that. He threatened to sell my children to a cadmium mine.”_

“That won't be a problem,” Pidge said, waving a beckoning hand to Yantilee, who had directed Tchak's men to take Plosser down to the stasis tanks and was now watching her with interest. “May I present Yantilee, Admiral of the Ghost Fleet and Captain of the _Osric's Quandary?”_

There were squeaks of alarm from the younger members of the royal family when Yantilee loomed over Pidge's head, and the Prince yelped, _“The Elikonian?_ _What happened to Plosser?”_

Yantilee smiled. “After our girl here sent you home, Plosser damn near killed her. The crew wouldn't stand for that, and things got rearranged a bit. We've got the old gorp-roach handy if you want him, though you'll have to wait six weeks for his head to grow back. I prefer hunting Galra to harassing innocent bystanders, and I aim to free the enslaved worlds as they become available. My Fleet Captains are a rough bunch, but stalwart, and they like their work. Shall we come by to meet with you?”

“ _Yes, yes, that would be good,”_ the King said, sounding a bit shaken. _“We'll need a mediator...”_

“Got you covered there,” Pidge said cheerfully, grabbing at Allura's hand and hauling her into the communicator's view. “May I present Princess Allura of Altea, Commander of Lions and Paladin of the black Lion? She's a trained diplomat and everything.”

Once again, there was a mass boggle from the Halidexans. _“From impossibility to legend, and now to myth. There are those who refuse to believe that the Altean Star Kings were anything other than a fairy story, you know.”_ The King sighed and gazed wistfully at Allura. _“I loved those old tales. Very well, Admiral Yantilee. Bring your motley horde to Halidex, where we will receive you as best we may, and work toward a solution to our mutual collection of problems. I think that we shall suit each other admirably.”_

Yantilee nodded. “We're coming. Freedom fighting's better than piracy, and the Empire's overstayed its welcome. See you soon.”

 

A half-hour later, the Stronghold's doors opened for the last time, and the mighty _Osric's Quandary_ issued forth into the universe like a phoenix from the egg to rejoin its fellows. Once the Ghost Fleet had attained a safe distance, Admiral Yantilee laid a hand on a button that would never be used again, and the battered moonlet vanished in a flash of light. Everyone felt the shockwave of the defunct fort's passing through the substance of their ships, and saluted the fallen soldier in all the ways it was possible to do so. Respects paid, they turned their ships toward Halidex and left the system behind.

 

Halidex was a pretty world, Pidge thought a few days later as she enjoyed the late-spring sunshine. It was much like Earth in many ways, and nicer in many. It was good to feel a planet underfoot again, and the Halidexans had made them feel very welcome despite the unfortunate histories of some of the Fleet. That was only natural, of course. Most of the Ghost Fleet ships were old, some with centuries of experience on the wrong side of the law, and it was difficult for most governments to simply disregard the very long list of depredations and wanted posters that those venerable craft had accumulated. On the other hand, Yantilee was convincing, the current captains of those ships had good reason to be doing what they had been doing, and the Fleet had not come empty-handed to the council table.

Allura, who had been trained precisely for situations of this nature, was wholly in her element, and Pidge suspected her of having near-illegal amounts of fun every time the talks started up again. All of the Fleet's captains had come down to dicker, even the Talssenemai... sort of. Pidge had learned that Shussshorim herself was physically bonded with the systems of the _Night Terror_ itself and could not leave; instead, she had sent one of her warriors down in her stead and was somehow perceiving everything through its senses. The implications of that had made her think long thoughts about cybernetics and biotechnological science, but she had no interest in studying the Hoshinthra any more closely than she already had. Even veiled, the doom moose was intensely uncomfortable to be around. Strangely enough, the Halidexans didn't seem to mind. They viewed all of their guests, the Warrior included, with more curiosity than anything else.

Some more than others. Pidge had been made aware over the last few days that the Fleet was largely made up of rarities. She'd known that aside from Yantilee, the Elikonians were no longer a starfaring people, but she hadn't realized just how many of the others were from very distant planets, or from worlds that no longer existed. She and her fellow Paladins had attracted more than their fair share of astonished sightseers, and Coran had never had such a large audience to tell his war stories to. They weren't the only legends on display, either; Kolanth had apparently been keeping his leader apprised of what was going on in this end of space, and Kolivan himself had turned up on the second day of talks to make his Order known to the King. Kelezar was still being kept under wraps, for obvious reasons; it was far too early for that fellow to let anyone know that he existed. Pidge shifted uneasily, thinking about that particular Galra. She'd made it very clear to the others that she was still First Mate of the _Quandary_ until the talks were over, but she'd gone back to the Castle briefly to update its files on certain facts about Human biology and had quite literally run into the giant there. Her nose still ached a little from colliding with his leg, and although he'd been almost comically contrite about that, she was still a little uncomfortable around someone who looked that much like the Emperor.

As for other matters involving Galra... well, those were pretty mixed. There was simply no way that the Ghost Fleet could have approached Halidex unseen, so Yantilee and the others hadn't bothered. Not that it mattered much; Lotor had stripped the local Governor of most of his garrison before attacking the Stronghold, and what little was left couldn't have challenged even the smallest of Yantilee's ships without being laughed out of orbit. The Governor himself, a short, aging, but very prudent old fellow had opted for a low-key response to the situation; this far from the Center, it was likely that even if he did start screaming about it, he was likely to be ignored. In the end, he issued a few stiff parking tickets and fines, filed an official complaint with the Royal House, and then quietly offered to ransom as many of the prisoners as were willing to be ransomed.

There would be fewer of those than most would think, Pidge knew. The surviving officers from those ships had rank or family connections that would protect them back home, but a lot of the ordinary soldiers had nothing to return to. A few discreet inquiries had revealed that Lotor had indeed declared them dead, along with reporting some patent lies about what had happened to the broken ships. Many of the soldiers' Lineages had followed the Prince's example by declaring them dead as well, and Ronok had told her how hard it was to dispute that sort of ruling, particularly once the “deceased” person's property and benefits had been claimed by the family. Some few had held out in the hope that their loved ones had survived, and those would be going home as soon as transport could be arranged. The rest would be given a modest portion of money and transport to the nearest Galra colonies. Finding out just who would go where had been Pidge's task today, since she had no head for diplomatic wrangling; she'd spent the morning collecting names and Lineages from the brig and the clinic and the afternoon checking who was officially dead and who wasn't. Not exactly a pleasant job, but it had to be done, and at least she could get a nice walk back to the port in.

She was met by Varis when she returned to the _Quandary,_ who took her list and frowned at it when he saw the disparity between the two columns. Being large and amiable, he'd been given the responsibility of looking after their captives, and had actually grown a little fond of some of them. “Damn,” he muttered sourly. “You'd think they'd put more stock in the military survival training, would you? Or notice that the Prince is an arrogant, self-serving little creep. This is a sad waste of good men. Shows how little your average soldier's valued, that's for sure.”

Pidge nodded glumly. “We see a lot of that where I come from, too. All I can hope is that the ones who do go home will make a stink about what happened to the rest. Have you told them what their options are yet?”

Varis nodded, scrolling down the list. “Did that last night after dinner. Doc's little pills'll wear off about midday tomorrow, which is when Yantilee'll let them make their choice. Come on, we'll tell them now, to give 'em a little time to think about it while they're still mellow. Your boy's on the dead list, you know.”

Pidge nodded sadly. “I know. I'll tell him when we're done with the others.”

It was a testament to Doc's skill with chemicals that the prisoners took the bad news as quietly as they did. Oh, there were some loud outbursts of bad language, a few vows of vengeance, and a fair amount of weeping, but there was no actual violence or vehement denials. Many of them had been expecting this outcome, and were simply relieved that they still had some hope for a future. Any other pirate captain might have sold them all as slaves, or left them to die in their shattered warships, or marooned them on some uninhabited planet. Varis had made sure that they had been treated well during their stay here, and Pidge had to wonder what conditions were like in the Imperial Barracks if they found a stint in the _Quandary's_ brig better than what they had at home.

Musing on this, she headed to the kitchen, where she found Ronok teaching Hunk and Tamzet how to properly deep-fry a batch of ditla. She paused a moment to watch them fondly, observing that Ronok was looking better than he had since she'd first met him. Tamzet was looking very much at home as well, and rather more alert than usual. Before she could comment on that, Ronok glanced up from the fryer and smiled. “There you are,” he said, tossing her a crisp-fried ditla. “How are things going downstairs?”

She shrugged and munched down the sweet-savory morsel. “Pretty much how we expected. The King really likes the idea of having us around, but the Minister of Law is having an infarct. All those people with big, fat bounties on their heads, and he can't touch any of them. Just the thought of writing up all those official pardons is making him weep. The Ministers of Finance and Commerce keep getting into fights over who gets what part of the loot we'll be hauling home, while the Minister of Procurement burns out his calculator trying to figure out just what sort of maintenance the Fleet is going to need. A lot of the ships are antiques.”

Hunk shook excess dredge off of the next batch of ditla. “Yeah. That old guy, Voan Lenna, had me going all through his ship updating some of the systems that nobody makes parts for anymore. Shame, really—it's a great ship and will probably keep running forever, but they'd kind of gotten sick of having the gravity generators going all weird like that. It's okay, I sorted it out.”

“Good,” Pidge replied, and continued, ticking off points on her fingers. “Kolivan's negotiating for safe spots and clandestine transport in return for some espionage work. Yantilee's laying out her master plan for throwing off the yoke of the oppressors, and believe me, the Minister of Strategy and his staff is all over that. The Minister of War has a big plot of empty land that was supposed to be set up as a new naval training base before the Empire blew up their ships. It's big enough to lay out a town in, so they're thinking about giving it to Yantilee as a place for us to take shore leave in. Zoallam's the closest that anybody in the Fleet comes to being an architect or a city planner, so they gave that job to him. He's having a lot of fun surveying the plot right now. The Minister of Offworld Trade is trying to persuade us to become armed guards for Halidex's freighters, the Minister of Interspecies Alliance is trying to wring something like a mutual-defense pact out of the Talssenemai and not having much luck, and the Minister of Art keeps trying to get a peek under its veils. Weird guy. The big argument of the day is about exactly how much control the King is going to have over the Fleet, and it's a doozy—the other Captains won't let anyone but Yantilee command them, Yantilee doesn't like being bossed around, and Shussshorim can't be bossed at all. Allura's juggling all of that, and more, and is determined to make it all work. Where are the others, by the way?”

Hunk smiled. “Out on the town with Lizenne and Modhri. The last six months have been kind of hectic, so they went to get a little of the local flavor. They're having fun, but I decided to stay in and learn from the master. How about you? What have you been doing all day?”

Pidge sighed. “First Mate duties. We've got three hundred and forty-eight prisoners, and we can't keep them around forever. The Governor's willing to ransom the officers and some of the soldiers, but the rest are going to have to build new lives out here. I had to go and find out who goes home and who stays here.”

Tamzet sobered, putting down the frying basket and laying both hands on the counter. “Which one am I?”

Pidge frowned at him and glanced at Ronok, who shook his head. “I didn't give him his pill yesterday. I don't care what Doc says, it's not a good idea to work a deep-fryer while on medication. He's taking his situation well enough.”

Pidge closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You're staying, Tamzet. Your aunt declared you dead.”

The young Galra froze for a moment, eyes wide with shock, then slumped forward bonelessly. Hunk caught him before he could sag to the floor and held him close, patting his back with a gentle if floury hand. Tamzet clung to his shirt with desperate strength, fighting back tears without much success.

“Aw, buddy,” Hunk said sympathetically, “that's harsh. Come on, let it all out. Don't bottle it up, man.”

Tamzet shuddered and sobbed without restraint, Ronok shutting down the deep-fryer and helping Pidge and Hunk to move him to a nearby stool. They stood close, letting him lean against them for comfort until he had finished. Ronok stared into the middle distance while holding the boy's shaking shoulders for a time, his expression bitter. “Boy, count your blessings,” he murmured when Tamzet's weeping had mostly trailed off. “As hard as it is to lose one's family, you yourself are whole and alive, whatever the law might say. For the moment, at least, you are safe and among friends, which was more than I had when it happened to me. We have both been betrayed and abandoned by the Empire that we worked so hard to serve. May it one day come to regret its wasteful behavior.”

Tamzet muttered something garbled and indistinct into Ronok's apron pocket, and the old man sighed and wrapped his arms around him. “Boy, if your cold-eyed _bitra_ of an aunt is so willing to cast her own nephew away, then she had no right to claim you as kin before this. This old man has a pair of fine nieces, but nowhere near enough nephews. Care to join the family? It's a little oddly-assorted and the family business is out of the common way, but the food's good and we're rarely bored.”

Tamzet shivered again and blew his nose on a dishcloth that Hunk handed him. “Now I know for sure that Doc's pill has worn off,” he said thickly. “I want to hit something very hard and accuse you all of lying to me.”

Ronok puffed a dry laugh. “I'll teach you how to make ghrembak stew next, then. Smacking the meat with a big spiky mallet and swearing a lot is part of the process. Or perhaps Ganduphan pocket-bread. You have to punch the dough into submission at least twice. Varda doesn't lie, boy. Even after hanging around with Nasty for half a year, she has never once told me an untruth.”

“I'm sorry, I should have found a better way to say it,” Pidge said contritely, “but it's true. I got the information from the big newsnet hub in the city. If you need proof, I can access the data using Osric's comms.”

Tamzet rubbed at his stinging eyes. “I might want to see it later. Not now. Gods. Let me... let me think about it, all right? I've always known that Aunt Minelar didn't like me much, but this?”

“Why didn't she like you?” Hunk asked.

He hissed through his teeth. “She wanted me to be something I'm not. A great starship captain worthy of serving the Emperor. She was really happy when Lotor drafted me. I've let her down again, and she won't forgive that.”

Hunk scratched his chin and hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, yeah, I can see that. I knew a guy in high school who had a relative just like that. Jimmy Cooper, whose dad had been military. A decorated lieutenant, as a matter of fact, and he wanted Jimmy to be just like him. He was on that poor kid's case all the time. Nothing Jimmy ever did was good enough, so he eventually quit trying to please his old man and ran away to become a ballet dancer. Turned out to be really good at it, too. I think he's with one of the big famous dance troupes now. His dad disowned him, and was sort of upset when Jimmy sent him a thank-you letter in return.”

Tamzet burst out into weak laughter, perilously close to another bout of tears, but there was real humor in it. “Aunt Minelar would have a heart attack if she knew that I was considering becoming a pirate cook.”

“Freedom fighter,” Pidge corrected with a grin. “If Allura can make everyone agree on it, we'll be freedom fighters, not pirates. Besides, if you do let Ronok adopt you, you'll have us Paladins as your cousins, and the Blade of Marmora as aunts and uncles, plus Lizenne, Modhri, both of the dragons, and hundreds of other weirdos as part of your pack. He wasn't kidding about the 'oddly-assorted' thing, and even less about it not being boring.”

He gave her a watery smile. “I can live with that.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kokochan: Everyone has been so supportive and understanding while Spanch and I deal with all the annoyances of real life, and we want to give all of you a huge THANK YOU for your encouragement and kindness. Spanch's computer should be fixed within the week (knock on wood, cross fingers, eyes, and toes) and I'll have a week off work for vacation. So hopefully another chapter will come sooner rather than later, and we'll find out just how much or little of the next story we've lost and need to redo. As it is, my evil plan for the week is to force Spanch to sit down with me and watch the first two seasons again to study the villains. We can't have Zarkon suddenly spouting pink sparkles, CAN WE? *side eyes Spanch*
> 
> Spanch: I wasn't going THAT far!
> 
> Kokochan: You were getting there. It's a good thing the editing process is a thing.


	30. Endings and Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, here it is, the last chapter of Piratology. We're giving you an extra long chapter for the finale to celebrate!

Chapter 30: Endings and Beginnings

 

Captain Vardok was not in charity with the universe at the moment, nor had he been for some time, and it rankled that he had been forced to return to Parzurak as a passenger on a courier shuttle, rather than at the helm of his own ship. Not that his own ship was of any use to him now, orbiting a gas giant in pieces as it was. His heart mourned for that ship, blasted by its own commander and left for dead along with its crew, abandoned to the mercies of pirates and monsters. One of the casualties of that battle had been Vardok's faith in the Emperor and the Crown Prince, and the breaking of that trust still hurt; the Prince might be forgiven, maybe, for his rash actions during the last fight against the pirates. After all, he was still young and relatively inexperienced, the pirates had been much tougher than anyone could have anticipated, and Voltron was a deadly foe. Vardok, however, could not forgive the Prince for abandoning them like that, nor could he forgive the Emperor for not sending anyone to confirm the Prince's claim that they had all been killed.

Which they had not! The pirates had proven to be far more merciful than he'd had any right to believe, even if they'd all been kept drugged and caged for the better part of two weeks. The Elikonian was a kinder Captain than the Juskoran had been, Vardok was grudgingly willing to admit. They'd been well-fed, the wounded had been cared for, the pirates had been forbidden to taunt their captives, and the green Paladin—the _green Paladin herself,_ for gods' sake—had insisted that they not be disposed of at the nearest slave market! Instead, she'd taken the trouble to convince the pirates to release their prisoners to an understanding Governor, or to the colony of their choice. It baffled him that the enemies of the Empire might show him more mercy than his own kind would, and had even arranged for safe transport and enough money for each survivor to start a new life with.

Vardok was among the fortunate ones; his sister had refused to believe that he was gone, and had welcomed him home with a show of relief and joy that had humbled him further. He would have been perfectly willing to stay at home for the rest of his life, helping her manage her tourist liner business, but he'd received a summons from the Military High Command that even the dead could not ignore. And so it was that he'd booked passage to Parzurak on one of his sister's own passenger liners, then transferred to this mail boat in order to get past the public levels. He was still required to help the surly pilot, who hadn't appreciated getting surprise orders from on high to ferry live cargo, unload and sort the various mail packets before he could continue up to the official levels. To his enormous surprise, he was met halfway up by a familiar face. “Kerraz?” he gasped. “You're alive?”

Kerraz gave him a twisted smile, appreciating his surprise. It was all too true that those summoned by Lady Haggar tended not to be seen again. “I told Lady Haggar what she wanted to know. Once she was done with me, General Pendrash spirited me away as his aide. Come on, he wants to see you, too. The General has reason to believe that the Prince has not been entirely truthful in his reports.”

Vardok's breath hissed between his teeth. “Very good reason. Some of the rumors I've heard... no. Have you summoned the other ransomed officers? Pendrash is too careful not to get as many sources as he can.”

Kerraz nodded and waved him into a private lift. “We have, and a few of the soldiers as well. You're just the last one we were able to locate, is all. They've told us a rather remarkable tale. Heh. Engineer Dhraas even admits to developing a liking for the pirate's chief medic, who gave him a sip of some of the best horath he'd ever tasted.”

Vardok snorted. “Fit to polish the silverware of the mighty, eh?”

“Or burn down a palace, yes. In here, sir.”

Vardok looked around in surprise at the dim, dusty room that obviously hadn't been in use for decades. “This isn't... Kerraz, what is going on here?”

“Privacy, sir,” Kerraz replied. “This isn't an official interview.”

Vardok gave him a horrified look. “Kerraz, if this is against the Emperor's--”

“It isn't.” Vardok gasped as a shadow in one corner resolved itself into the awesome shape of General Pendrash. “He isn't aware of this, and neither is Lady Haggar. Powerful as they are, they are both a little too unsubtle for this work. This is my own project, and I would like to think that they would approve of it, for I am hunting for plots against them... among other things. I am also planning for the future. Report, Captain Vardok. You more or less vanished from sight months ago, when your ship was first taken by the _Osric's Quandary,_ and you and your crew were ransomed by the Prince. Kerraz was able to tell me some of it, but I eagerly await your version of the following events.”

Vardok bowed his head in acquiescence, marshaling his thoughts. It was a relief to unburden his mind to a superior officer, and he left out no details; Pendrash allowed him to do so without interruption, his face growing grimmer and grimmer as Vardok went on.

At the end of it, Pendrash sighed disgustedly. “The Prince relies too much upon his rank to protect him. _Two_ planet-busters, both lost. A naval academy stripped of its best students, most of those lost as well, to say nothing of the training ships. At least a dozen Governors filing complaints for his high-handed behavior, several reports of a Hoshinthra warship—was it _really_ the _Night Terror?”_

Vardok shuddered. “Yes, sir. I've studied the Histories, and the ship we saw matched the records exactly. It's said that they don't die of old age.”

“Or much of anything else, really. One of my ancestors was among those who went to neutralize that threat, and his journals have been used to terrify the cubs into good behavior for five centuries.” Pendrash bared his teeth at the memory. “Worse, the Prince has nothing to show for his excesses, and the Empire may stand to lose control of that entire Sector. Not a crippling loss, considering the sheer scale of the Emperor's holdings, but should they succeed in wresting themselves loose, the effect could cascade across that entire region. Levels of unrest are already high; the Throne has shown a weakness, and Voltron remains uncaptured.”

Vardok nodded; his ship had been shot out from under him because the Prince hadn't been able to blow the huge robot apart. “The Emperor does not forgive failure, not even in his sons. Has he recovered yet, by the way? I've been somewhat out of touch.”

Pendrash nodded grimly. “Yes, or mostly. He is awake, although he was groggy for a time, and much of his attention is taken up with one of Haggar's projects at the moment. I'm not sure of the details, and I'm not sure that I want to know. Things are returning to normal, however slowly, but the Prince is going to have to watch his step from now on. Haggar wanted very much to get her hands on certain of the Paladins, and Lotor let them slip through his fingers.”

Vardok rubbed nervously at his neck, where on bad days he could still feel the weight of a collar. “I've heard that she's taken other princes into that lab of hers before. They tended not to come out of there alive.”

Pendrash turned away, eyes narrowed. “You heard truly. Some plotted against their sire. Others failed once too often in their assigned duties. Others were just the hapless tools of certain ambitious power groups. I had real hopes for one or two of them... alas. We must deal with what we have, and so must others. Had you any plans for the future, Vardok?”

Vardok shrugged. “My sister has offered me work in her business, piloting her new luxury liner. It doesn't pay quite as well as piloting a warship, but I won't get shot at by giant robots quite as often.”

Pendrash unbent enough to smile. “And you'll be allowed to wear a comfortable outfit. I envy you that, at least. I will offer you another option, if you haven't yet agreed to take your sister up on her deal. You are a skilled pilot and a good captain, and have learned caution, and prudence; we have just added a few new craft to the elite courier corps, and need good men to captain them. You will keep your eyes and ears open, and you will report directly to me, should you agree to this offer, and _yes,_ you will be well-compensated for the service.”

Vardok gulped. The Courier Elite! Only the best, most trustworthy pilots were allowed anywhere near those ships, which carried the highest officials and the most sensitive items and information. “Sir... I... I don't know what to say.”

“Yes or no,” Pendrash replied easily. “Either will do. There is no penalty for refusing.”

“Then _yes,_ sir.” Vardok sighed and felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He would have work, and a future, and would not have to rely on his family's charity. “I will do this.”

Pendrash smiled. “Very good.”

 

Allura was enormously proud of herself. Her first major diplomatic assignment had been concluded successfully, with all parties satisfied and all details seen to, and with remarkable dispatch. She could say this for pirate captains—they weren't anywhere near as in love with the sound of their own voices as government officials were, and so tended to get right to the point. Other than that, she privately observed, there really wasn't much difference between them. She could, however, admire Yantilee's unwillingness to allow a dispute to last for more than five minutes; Allura could remember sitting in on a diplomatic session where two parties had wrangled for hours about one unimportant subclause, simply because of an ongoing rivalry between them. She made a mental note that Elikonians made fantastic referees and continued her work.

The result of her efforts was on the table now, that being a large and beautiful traditional scroll with the terms and conditions of the Ghost Fleet's residency hand-written in Halidexan Royal Script, with hand-painted illuminations and ornate capitals. Oh, everybody had an electronic version in all of the necessary languages, but it had been agreed that something a little more formal would be nice to have lying around. As the whole world watched, King Trosimon of Halidex took up a genuine capia-feather quill pen and put his signature and seal upon the contract. Yantilee, in his capacity as Admiral, added his signature next, followed by the other Captains of the Fleet, although the Hoshinthra's signature was nothing more or less than a drop of the warrior's circulatory fluid. Allura wasn't quite willing to call that liquid “blood” because she was fairly sure that blood shouldn't glow with its own pale luminescence or cause chemical burns on the parchment. Kolivan laid down his Order's glyph after that, as did Allura, and she had her teammates add their odd, scrawly signatures as well. There was a cheer from the crowd of spectators that had crammed into the audience hall to watch the ceremony, and then everyone headed into a nearby ballroom for dinner and drinks.

Not too many drinks, she was pleased to see, the Halidexans being quite sensibly unwilling to have to deal with a roomful of drunken ex-pirates. She did, however, see Coran slipping the _Quandary's_ medic a bottle of something pink. A bottle of her father's Special Reserve, from the label. She chose to ignore that; the peculiar alien was as valued a crewman as the cook was, and any more friendships that tied the Ghost Fleet to the Voltron Alliance were welcome. In any case, it was time to circulate. She had done the duties that her father had trained her in, and now she would give the lessons her mother had given her a turn. Decked out in her formal gown, she partook of the refreshments, smiled regally, engaged in sparkling conversation, and kept a sharp eye on her fellow Paladins. Those four, alas, had never participated in any sort of official function, ever. At the very least she'd managed to persuade them to dress for the occasion, and Hunk and Pidge had managed to persuade the Castle's Autotailor to produce a version or two of Altean formal wear that made them look at least moderately presentable. Some more than others. Keith, with his fresh-faced and youthful good looks, appeared rather dashing in his scarlet-accented dress formals, and Pidge managed her own gown, a simplified version of Allura's in green velvet, with acceptable skill. Hunk was imposing in gold and black, but nothing on this planet or off of it could make Lance look like anything but a gawky schoolboy. Still, the local girls didn't seem to care, and he soon had his own cluster of giggling young ladies to preen at. At the moment they were behaving themselves. Keith was talking with a few of the surviving Halidexan military officials, Hunk was discussing sauces with one of the kitchen staff, Lance was telling war stories to his clutch of pretty girls, and Pidge was sitting at one of the tables with a few of her pirate friends. A very oddly assorted bunch, even in that small group. A Human, a Vontakle, a caterpillar-like Palisoor, an Abyoran, and an Unilu, all of them chattering and laughing together like old comrades.

Allura bestowed a dazzling smile upon a Halidexan Minister, offered a few compliments in the approved manner, and looked around for the others. Coran and that medic, “Doc”, Pidge called him, were sitting at a table with the bottle and a pair of cups, and seemed to be discussing the relative merits of their wine. Modhri, dear man, was listening with all the grave concern of a favorite uncle to something that the Crown Prince was telling him. Zaianne, from the evil grin on her face, was sharing dirty stories with some of the pirates. Lizenne... where was that woman? Oh, there she was, observing Captain Tchak's odd habit of involuntary levitation. The scaly pirate was outwardly calm and collected, but apparently you could tell if he was excited by the way small objects started to fly around unassisted. Tchak must be very excited about something, for he currently had a halo of silverware orbiting his head. Kolivan, Helenva, and Kolanth were standing at the far end of the room, speaking quietly with the Halidexan spymaster and, oddly enough, the Queen.

She could see the other Ghost Fleet captains here and there around the room, surrounded by their best crewmen and crowds of Halidexan admirers, all of them on their best behavior, thankfully. Admiral Yantilee was near the center of the room, listening politely to the King with the little Princess sitting on her (his?) shoulder. The _Night Terror's_ representative was also present, veiled in pearl-gray silks and standing in a little circle of open space; its Captain's fearsome reputation and its sheer size guaranteed that it wouldn't be crowded. As it was, the grand ballroom was packed; Allura was a little glad that her mice, the dragons, and Kelezar had opted to stay in the Castle. There simply wasn't room for them.

Allura wondered to herself whether or not the party would take a familiar course as the event wore on. On Altea, it was expected that the guests would sample more of the wines and less of the snacks as the hour grew late, and certain of the less-wary dignitaries would wind up getting drunk and doing silly things. It was one thing to have Coran's uncle swinging on the chandeliers, but quite another to have someone like Captain Zorjesca, who was big, semi-insectile, and quite fearsome-looking, going on a drunken rampage. Or the Hoshinthra. Allura gazed dubiously at what her teammates had dubbed a “doom moose”. _Could_ Hoshinthra become drunk? If so, what would get them drunk? Allura remembered the hiss and the puff of vapor when that single glowing drop of pale blood had hit the parchment, and decided that she didn't really want to know. Glittering and smiling nonetheless, Allura carried on.

Pidge, on the other hand, was more interested in the future than in politics, and was discussing what features their new hometown here on Halidex should have. Zoallam had thoroughly examined the proposed site for their residence and had been working almost constantly on the plans for the last week and a half. Everyone agreed that a good road system, an efficient and easily-serviced utility grid, and comfortable housing was necessary, but opinions differed widely where it came to entertainment, shopping, recreation, and education. Each and every one of the vast variety of aliens serving aboard the Fleet ships had different needs and preferences, and fitting them all in was a very interesting challenge. Fortunately, there were only so many environments necessary to the well-being of oxygen-, nitrogen-, and hydrogen-breathing temperate-world life forms, and Zoallam was able to face the puzzle as he faced so many other things—artistically. Pidge sat back, nibbled from her plate of snacks, and listened a little enviously to Nasty trying to persuade Zoallam to add a zero-G obstacle course to one of the training facilities. She knew very well that she wouldn't be present to see the town built; after today, she'd be back aboard the Castle with her team, thwarting the Empire's evil aims as part of the Voltron Force. They'd visit, of course; the team had responsibilities to its allies, and they would have to come back anyway, if only to drop Nasty off when their month of being honorary Unilu was finished. Pidge leaned her chin on her fist and gazed fondly around the room at her friends while they mixed with royalty. What a trip it had been! Six months ago, the _Quandary_ and its crew had been just another pirate ship. A big, lumbering, poorly-maintained and poorly-led crowd of cosmic misfits, keeping a slippery half-step ahead of the law and doomed to an eventual and ignominious end. Now it was the proud flagship of a fleet that had kicked some serious Imperial ass and was soon to become a major force for liberation and freedom in this Sector, and possibly more. Something special was being built here, and it was a real privilege to be part of it. _This is my life now,_ she thought, _and it's pretty awesome._

The only thing that kept the evening from being perfect was the nagging feeling that she was forgetting something. It was something important, something to do with a friend, and she simply couldn't remember what it was. It had been picking at her thoughts for days, she realized, possibly weeks, but since they had left the Stronghold, she had been far too busy to think about it. She sipped her juice, listened to Zoallam explaining why he couldn't possibly put a diving platform on the cliff above the lake on the eastern side of the land-parcel with half an ear, and pried at the stubborn thought. Something about someone who was far away...

There was a crash, a lot of indignant shouting, and a cry of _“Varda!”_ that broke her concentration. She jumped to her feet, looked around, and spotted an altercation over by the buffet table that featured fresh raw vegetables, dips, and fondue pots. A portly Halidexan Delegate was trying to berate Captain Ketzewan's First Mate, who was shouting furiously right back. Also shouting was something green and sauce-covered on the Halidexan's plate. Pidge realized that the noisy greenery was actually Ketzewan himself, and someone was in danger of causing an Incident. Or possibly already had, for one of the fondue pots had already fallen from the sideboard, spilling something bluish and savory all over a sizable section of floor. She sighed and relieved the Halidexan noble of the sauce-drenched plateful so that he could make crude gestures at his adversary more efficiently, and headed for the drinks counter. There was an urn of fresh spring water there, and plenty of paper napkins, and poor Ketzewan, who had been dressed to the nines for the occasion, needed all that he could get.

She grabbed a large bowl, emptied the napkins out of it, and set that down with the plate in it under the tap. “An error of judgment there, Cap'n?” she asked, turning the spigot so that it sent a brisk stream of water over the muttering pirate.

Ketzewan doused his florets with a gasp of relief, wiping at his soiled jacket with disdainful leaves. “On Both Our Parts,” he grumbled in his movie-star voice. “More Mine Than His; I Should Not Have Lingered By The Vegetarian Option. Morbid Curiosity Has Its Dangers. Ah, Well. Truly It Is Said: ' _A Salad Doesn't Fret When It Swims In Vinaigrette, But Personally, I'm Not Pleased To Be Smothered In Bleu Cheese.'_ Truer Words Were Never Spoken, Although I Think It Loses Something In Translation. Whatever Is Wrong, Young Lady?”

Pidge was staring at him as though he'd grown tentacles. “Captain, that little poem is a throwaway line in an extremely old computer game where I come from. How the heck did it get from your culture to mine?”

Ketzewan humphed, removed his ruined jacket, and swirled it around in the growing puddle in an attempt to get the sauce out. “Haven't The Least Notion. Some Might Cite Parallel Evolution, But That's Nonsense. It Is Merely The Universe Being Ridiculous Again. My People Believe That It's A Living, Sentient Creature, And, Alas, It Believes That It Is Funny. Quite Mad, Really, But There Is Nothing To Be Done About It.”

Pidge thought about that for a moment. “That makes a lot of sense. It sure explains some aspects of physics. And Australia.”

“I Am Certain That It Does. Damn,” Ketzewan said, holding up his sodden garment. “That's Done It For This Poor Thing, And Cantral Worked All Night To Finish It, Too.”

“Who?” Pidge asked, frowning at the stains.

“My Tailor. She'll Be Livid At The Waste Of Good Vontakle Silk, And Will Shout At Me For Allowing Some Half-Drunken Fool To Besmirch It. Please Pass Me Those Napkins, And Then Would You Mind Carrying Me Over To Our Admiral, Varda? I Would Like To Have A Word With Him.”

Pidge stared at him, but did as she was told. “You've got a pirate tailor?”

“Yes,” Ketzewan said, patting himself dry. “A Rogue Bolumnere Fashionista. Very Rare, Very Temperamental, But Well Worth The Trouble Of Keeping Her Supplied. Swashbuckling Is Far More Enjoyable When One's Attire Does Not Chafe, You See. Why Should You Be Surprised At That? You've Got A Pirate Artist!”

“He's not really a pirate, and neither are the rest of us, now,” Pidge said, lifting the little Captain carefully onto her shoulder. “Freedom Fighters, remember? It's all official and everything. Besides, he's going to be busy designing our home port.”

Ketzewan tutted. “Yes, And I Will Probably Have To Deal With A Similar Project From Mine. As A Recognized And Legitimate Force For Good, She Will Doubtless Decide That We Will Need Uniforms, Rather Than Our Motley Collection Of What She Refers To As 'Rags And Tatters'. Especially If Grand Duke Dablinnit Doesn't Wish To Retire After This. She's Always Wanted To Outfit Both Military Commanders And Royalty, And Now He Is The Two Made One!”

“Huh. And his opinion on that?”

Ketzewan chortled. “His Words, And I Quote: _'Run For The Hills!'._ Dablinnit Enjoys Casual Wear.”

Pidge snorted a laugh. “Casual wear” was putting it mildly. Grand Duke he might have been, but Captain Dablinnit had a marked preference for his people's version of cargo pants and T-shirts with snarky logos printed on them. Usually ones with puns, come to think of it, which he generally wore until they were more holes than shirt. Wrestling him into the formal outfit that he was currently wearing must have been a challenge. “Maybe she can make him a version that won't make his back itch,” Pidge said, making her way through the throng toward Yantilee. “I don't know, _can_ you make cargo pants and a gross old T-shirt look like a uniform?”

“I Shall Present The Challenge To Cantral At The First Opportunity,” Ketzewan promised.

On their way across the room, they passed King Trosimon, who looked to have been imbibing the wines perhaps just a little too much, since he was approaching the Hoshinthra with a slightly blurry but determined expression. Pidge suddenly felt a sense of impending doom; while the creature was standing apparently at its ease, the antennae were twisting and turning above its head like a sea anemone's tentacles, and Pidge couldn't tell whether that was from interest or agitation.

Ketzewan seemed to feel the same as she did, for he nudged her gently in the ear with a leaf and muttered, “Trouble Brewing On The Port-Side, First Mate.”

It was already too late, unfortunately. The antennae had swung around to fixate upon the King, and the long head turned toward him. _“The King has a question?”_

The hollow, echoing whisper caused a lull in the nearby conversations, and eyes all around turned to view this bit of unfolding drama.

“Yes, actually,” the King said pleasantly, eyeing the spreading antennae. “I grew up with a great many legends of your kind, and have no idea if any of them are actually true. What _does_ a Hoshinthra Warrior look like under its veils, if you don't mind showing me?”

Pidge, who had actually seen one unveiled and didn't want a panic in here, hurried forward. “Your Majesty, I'm not sure that you really want to--”

Too late. Perhaps Shussshorim wished to test the courage of her new allies. Perhaps she was bored and wanted to see how well they stampeded. Either way, her representative bowed its head, murmured _“The King's wish is granted,”_ and whisked its veils away with a single sweeping gesture. The room went abruptly silent at the sight of the glittering Hoshinthra, every Halidexan present staring at the lethal apparition with sagging jaws and bulging eyes.

“Well, Now You've Done It,” Ketzewan said sourly into the silence. “What Do You Have To Say Now, Your Majesty?”

King Trosimon of Halidex raised a trembling finger and indicated the proud Warrior. “That,” he said breathlessly, “is the most beautiful thing other than my wife and children that I have ever seen in my life.”

“What?” Pidge and Ketzewan chorused.

“ _What?”_ echoed the suddenly perplexed Hoshinthra.

The King began to circle the Warrior, taking in every detail with all evidence of delight, while all of his people hurried to the center of the room for a better look.

“It's _gorgeous,”_ he breathed. “Look at it! Perfectly in proportion to itself. The shining scales, the gleaming antennae, the supple strength, the accents lent by those glowing things... This is the pure, proud epitome of predatory perfection. Why have you never graced us with your beauty before?”

The Hoshinthra began to pose prettily as imagers flashed. Coquettishness and Hoshinthra did not mix well. Pidge and Ketzewan shared a baffled glance, and then Pidge ran a hand over her disbelieving eyes. “Ketzewan, what were you saying about the Universe being silly?”

The broccoloid alien sighed. “I Must Admit That This One's A Doozy. To Yantilee, If You Would, Please, While There Is Still Some Sanity Left In The Night. What Other Strangeness Do These Late Hours Hold For Us, I Wonder?”

Pidge shrugged the shoulder that didn't have a starship captain on it. “I don't know, but here's a good one. You look exactly like a vegetable from my homeworld, Captain. It's called 'broccoli'.”

Ketzewan humphed, but didn't sound displeased. “How Interesting! That Word Is Very, Very Similar To A Word In One Of Our Classical Languages, And Means 'Heroism'.”

“Seriously?” Pidge asked, and at Ketzewan's nod, said, “There's a smaller version called 'broccolini'.”

“'Paragon'.” Ketzewan replied happily. “I Say, This Is Fun! Any More?”

Pidge nodded. “Yeah. There's a related plant that comes in white, yellow, or purple, and it's called 'cauliflower'.”

“'Notoriety', Although The Emphasis Is Positive Rather Than Negative, And It Would Take All Night To Describe The Significance Of The Colors. Very Good Colors, Though. Very Symbolic.”

“That's nice, because there's a hybrid called 'broccaflower', and it's a nice light green,” Pidge said.

Ketzewan scratched a floret with a leaf. “Not A Proper Word, But I Like The Sound Of It. A Strange Coincidence, But At Least This One Isn't Insulting. Getting To Know Your People Will Be A Grand Adventure—So Long As I Stay Away From The Vegetarian Option, Eh?”

Pidge cackled. “Actually, I can't wait to see it when your people encounter the Vegans for the first time. They get very smug about not eating or using any animal parts or products at all, and they can be a pain to be around.”

Ketzewan chuckled. “We Have A Number Of Interest Groups Much Like That At Home. Pure Leafmould Or Compost, With Or Without Animal Matter, And That Doesn't Even Begin To Describe The Screaming Arguments Between The Mushroom-Mulch Enthusiasts, The Manure Aficionados, And The Symbiosis Leagues. Ah, Yantilee, I Need A Word...”

Pidge passed up her passenger onto Yantilee's shoulder—now vacant of princesses—and was about to head back to her table when a pair of familiar voices were raised in drunken song. It was a venerable ditty that had been popular among the Fleet's crews, and was frequently heard in taverns and in barracks all over the universe. There were dozens, if not hundreds of versions, but the opening verses were always the same, and instantly recognizable. It was the people singing it that surprised her.

“ _Mistress Mekkle was a stoker, and we knew her very well...”_ Coran and Doc yodeled cheerfully over their empty bottle of Royal Reserve. _“But she had an old oil pump that was noisier than hell!”_

Pidge cast a glance up at her Captain, who looked amused. “I thought singing was sacred to Doc's people.”

Yantilee smiled. “They've got a wine god and a fertility god and a whole library of dirty songs. Holiness is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone's eyes are different.”

“ _Thump! Thump! Thump! Went the pump!”_ Coran and Doc bellowed drunkenly, banging their cups on the table; Pidge took out a recorder, for one should never pass up an opportunity to gather blackmail. _“You could feel it right through the sump! She said it was the weather, but all of us knew better, 'specially when we ALL got together and...”_

The rest of that verse made her ears burn, as it was supposed to. It really was very amusing to watch the crowd. All of the pirates were grinning unashamedly, the dainty, delicate-mannered Halidexan nobles were staring aghast at their guests, and the Hoshinthra was listening with considerable curiosity. Not surprising, since Lizenne had told her that they reproduced via cloning vat. Doc managed to get through the first three verses of the song with reasonable grace, but then Coran, surprisingly, embarked on an epic of lyrical lewdness, loudly and with gusto, that made even the pirates gulp and stare. Blushes in a dozen different colors suffused hundreds of faces as Coran laid upon their maiden hearing apparatus verses that had been banned and burned not only centuries, but millennia ago. Allura had gone white under her nut-brown complexion, and she was staring at her courtier with unalloyed horror.

“Pidge!” she hissed, catching at Pidge's sleeve. “Stop them! Get them out of here before they cause an incident! There are _children present!”_

Pidge was made of sterner stuff and was grinning without shame, and her hand never faltered on her recorder. “Are you nuts? This is great, and I'm getting all of it. Hey, Ketzewan, how's this for cosmic silliness?”

Ketzewan vented a dry laugh. “Like Those Two Men Over There, I Think 'Tis Drunk And Needs To Go Home.”

Allura glared at her. “Pidge, you have spent far too much time among the pirates.”

Pidge grinned at her, completely unrepentant. “Yeah, and I had a lot of fun doing it.”

Coran retrieved the empty bottle, drained the last few potent drops, and bellowed out a verse so universally explicit that even Zaianne turned pale.  _“Sir!”_ she she said in a horrified voice, “Your language!”

He grinned evilly at her and waved a wobbly finger in her direction. “Aha! Got you, Madame, and all it took was half a bottle of Alfor's Special Reserve and the dirtiest ditty ever to slime its way up from the Altean infantry barracks. Just think of what we might achieve with Keith's bottle of Rejolian brandy! Grand bunch, the Rejolians. Now,  _there_ was a people that took fermentables seriously. Never a fruit, grain, leaf, twig, or root vegetable grew on their homeworld that wasn't tested for its potential potability, and when they discovered genetic engineering, it wasn't long before their entire sphere of influence was one big binge-drinking party. They found a whole nebula made of chemically pure ethyl alcohol, and the winter shandy they made from that was one of the best bits of brewing that the universe had ever seen. Why, half of the parties in the Castle...”

Pidge turned off her recorder. “Okay,  _now_ we take him into the back and pour a bucket of cold water over his head, or he'll be like this all night. Doc's already out and we can just flop him down on a couch somewhere. I hope that we've got lots of numvill on the Castle, Allura, 'cause Doc's going to want more.”

“And the more of that stuff we get out of the Castle, the better,” Keith said, coming up behind her and making a face. “Gimme a hand here, Hunk, I had a Society matron faint all over me just now, and those are _heavy.”_

Protesting drunkenly, Coran was gently but firmly removed from the room, and by general agreement—since nothing was going to top his performance except if the Hoshinthra were to eat someone—the party broke up. There was one last call on Pidge's attention before she was allowed to go back to the ship, however; the Hoshinthra laid an upper hand lightly on her shoulder and asked what one of the more complicated procedures in Coran's song involved.

Pidge, who by virtue of having been in close contact with a very wide variety of rough characters for the last six months knew the answer to that, but it had been a long day and she was not about to spend the rest of the night explaining the birds, bees, weasels, giant hissing cockroaches, fruit bats, and squid to a creature that probably wasn't equipped to enjoy that sort of thing anyway.

“You're not old enough,” she growled, stepping away from its touch.

“ _This individual is nearly two hundred years old,”_ the Warrior replied.

“Still not old enough.” Pidge said.

“ _The Talssenemai is more than five hundred years old,”_ the Warrior pointed out.

“She's not old enough either.”

“ _We will research it,”_ the Warrior threatened.

“Good!” Pidge said, longing for her bed. “Google is your friend, Doom Moose.”

“ _What is 'google'?”_

Pidge glared at the Hoshinthra. The word meant a lot of things out here in the Universe, and one of those definitions had been mentioned frequently in verse 23 of 'Mistress Mekkle's Oil Pump', which Coran had belted out lustily only a short time ago. “Look that up, too,” she replied. “I'm going home.”

 

“Home” in this case meant the Castle. She knew that she'd be saying her goodbyes to the Ghost Fleet in the morning, but she wanted the quiet and privacy of the Castle right now... and some time alone with her long-lost family. It felt strange; the meaning of _family_ had changed and expanded in her mind, from the simple and involuntary ties of blood to the best friends in the universe, and the heart-deep bond between her, the Lions, and her fellow Paladins. She saw all of them with new eyes now, and she liked what she saw.

Even if there was a giant in the Castle, sprawled on the floor on his belly playing Dix-Par for cookies with Tilla and holding his own, surprisingly enough. Pidge had been told that he was only a temporary guest until the Castle came within range of one of the Marmoran hideouts, but that didn't obscure the fact that he was here. Rather remarkably here. All three meters or so of him were inarguably  _here,_ and looking very much like a certain Emperor.  _Could be worse,_ she thought,  _he could have been a girl and looked like Haggar. A giant Haggar. Yuck._

“Need something, Miss?” he rumbled, sounding so unlike a crazed tyrant that she relaxed.

“Just wondering about something. What's so bad about Golrazi clams?”

Kelezar snorted a laugh. “They have axes.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

He turned his head and flashed her a quick grin. “Oh, yeah. Golraz Beta's got only one ocean, and it's shallow and hot and full of things with bad attitudes. A lot like the society you'll find there, to tell you the truth. The clams can get as big as my hand--” and he held up an enormous paw to illustrate, “--and they dig themselves into the sand by the shore. The shells are as hard as blast armor and the muscle inside has these two little chips of it, sharp as razors, and if they feel something big walking nearby, they'll rocket right out of the strand with axes waving and will chase you right down the beach. They're delicious if you steam 'em, but you have to wear special armor to do the cooking.”

Pidge pictured a bag of huge, angry, axe-murderer clams and reflected that, yes, she'd met a few people who'd fit that description. “Sounds like an exciting place to live.”

“That's one word for it,” Kelezar sighed, cautiously taking a card from the deck and adding it to his hand. “It's actually pretty nasty if you aren't Golrazi, and gods help you if you aren't Galra. Stay away from there, Miss. It's bad ground. Your move, Tilla.”

Tilla grunted, considered her cards, and nudged over the stand that held them. It was a very respectable Admiral's Honor, but not quite good enough to beat Kelezar's Returning Scion. Tilla let out an astonished squawk as Kelezar collected the pot. “That'll teach you to fiddle the deck, you bad girl,” Kelezar chuckled. “She cheats. I cheat better. Your guys are in the kitchen, by the way, 'cause Hunk wanted dessert. Weren't there nibbles at the party?”

“Yes, but we got more drama than nibbles.” Pidge said, grinning at Tilla's affronted expression. “Halidexans think Hoshinthra are pretty and Coran knows the dirtiest songs in the universe, both of which—that's Coran and the Universe—and I have this on the very best authority, are drunk and need to go home.”

Kelezar handed her a cookie. “Some folks have all the fun. Go and be with your team, Miss, Hunk's trying to make something he calls 'ice cream', and he'll want someone to test it on.”

Enticed by this pronouncement, Pidge scampered off kitchenward. Kelezar smiled, then cocked a sly glance at the dragon. “'Nother hand, Tilla? Clean game this time, I promise.”

Tilla gave him a look of deep disgust, but nudged the deck in his direction.

 

“That man is a genius,” Hunk declared, scooping out something smooth, creamy, and swirled in orange and green into five small bowls, “and his dad and his uncles were idiots to throw him out. Full stomachs are what civilization is all about, and he's a master.”

Lance scooped up a spoonful of something that tasted a lot like eggnog, a little like nutmeg, and slightly like the rotgut brandy that one of his uncles made in a hidden 'still on his back lot. It was totally delicious, and he dug in with a will. “No argument there. I'm sorta jealous of you, Pidge. You got this for half a year.”

Pidge swallowed a spoonful in a somewhat bittersweet mood; it was comforting that a part of her uncle's artistry would be present aboard the Castle, but it was no substitute for having the old man himself around. They'd visit the _Quandary,_ if only to drop Nasty off in a month's time, but it wasn't the same. “Not all the time, Lance. What the crew ate depended a lot on what was available. We got a lot of the food by raiding ships, and it was the civilian craft that had all the best stuff. The Galra military doesn't really feed its soldiers very well, and after Yantilee had us going after mostly Galra ships, we had to go shopping at whatever ports wouldn't turn us in. Those could be kind of unreliable at times, so Ronok really had to learn to compromise. It's a good thing that we've got Doc on the crew to help him, or there would have been all kinds of deficiency diseases and cases of food poisoning going on. Part of why Yantilee wanted to free Walmanech is that they're a major producer of mettic paste—that's the peanut-butter stuff—and I practically lived on the cookies he made with it. Half of the crew likes it, too, especially the Nantileeri. You did leave Lon back at the _Quandary,_ didn't you?”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “He shouldn't have stolen his boss's snacks. She's got him on terrarium-cleaning duty. I got my shirt back, but he'd been using it to scrub out the tanks.”

He jerked his thumb at one of the sinks, where that badly-stained item of clothing was soaking in a basin. Allura sighed and licked her spoon. “We'll have to see if we can get the autotailor to make you a new one. You'll have to tell us of your adventures, Pidge. However did you manage to befriend that whole crew?”

“It wasn't just me, and I won't tell it tonight,” Pidge said firmly. “It's been a crazy-busy couple of weeks, and I'm going to need a lot of sleep, and soon. Right after dessert, in fact, or I'm going to face-first it into the custard.”

Keith grinned at her. “Watch out, Pidge, Hunk redecorated your room.”

Pidge shot a suspicious look at Hunk. “You what?”

Hunk scraped the last of the ice cream out into her bowl. “Hunting trophies. Just finish that off, and we'll show you.”

Ten minutes later, Pidge was staring at the walls of her bedroom in mild astonishment. “You _framed_ them?”

There were a lot of frames, each one proudly presenting a translated printout of her exploits, taken from a great many sources. Mostly tabloids, she saw, and couldn't help but blink in perplexity at one particularly bad drawing. “Is that my Lion?”

“As drawn by someone who'd never seen a robot cat in his life,” Hunk said fondly. “It was too awful to pass up. These were the first clues we had of how you were doing, and where you were. I'm kinda jealous, actually. It looked like you were having fun while we were still too sick to stand up and wear armor at the same time. How'd you manage that, anyway?”

She shrugged and ran her hand over the page of the _Blagblah Enquirer_ that had given the Fleet its name. “I don't know. Maybe I acted instinctively to pull the poison out. Maybe it's because Doc had a really good-quality healpod. Maybe something that Ronok fed me was an antidote. None of you guys lost your memories, right?”

“No, just our health,” Keith replied, glancing at the others. “Allura took it better than we did, but she's a Perfect Mirror. We all felt like train wrecks, though, and Lizenne looked like one.”

“It took us a long time to recover,” Lance added, “and the Empire was chasing us the whole time. We couldn't do anything about it, so Zaianne had to vanish us like the ninja every fifteen minutes. I don't think that she or Coran got a whole night's sleep for months!”

“Modhri nearly exhausted himself keeping everyone fed and cared for, and Kolanth searched the newsnets for word of you without letup,” Allura murmured. “We could not find you through the Lion-bond, so we had to go with the tabloids. Here—these showed us for the first time that you were not dead, but thriving despite everything that had happened.”

Pidge grinned at the headlines. “Yeah, that was just after I'd fitted Osric with the cloaking system, and Yantilee wanted to try it out. Poor Tamzet, we scared him pretty badly.”

Allura giggled. “I'm going to want to hear that story sometime soon, Pidge. Every time you touch an ear, it seems that you leave a healthy dollop of luck in it.”

Pidge considered that, and then yawned hugely. “Maybe. I'll test that hypothesis later. Gotta sleep now, guys. G'night.”

The others murmured their _goodnights_ and turned to leave, although Hunk grabbed her up in a bear hug for good measure. After that, she changed into her pajamas, sniffed at the air and missed the spicy scent of thelwisk, then fell into bed and let sleep claim her.

 

The following day was very busy, full of last-minute projects and errands, and far too many tearful farewells. Pidge and Hunk spent the morning in Maozuh's stockrooms, putting together a series of machines that would produce the tokens that would mark them as friends to the Hoshinthra: one for the Castle, one for the Fleet, another for the Halidexans, and one for the Blades, and several spares in case one should break. The little tokens thus produced were actually pins, with special fasteners that the old Quartermaster had guaranteed would not fail unexpectedly, or damage anyone's clothing; it seemed to be the most efficient way to arrange it, and allowed Hunk to make the obligatory joke. “Badges?” he said at one point, making her laugh, “We don't need no steenking badges!”

Pidge remarked that if that surly Mexican bandit had ever seen a Hoshinthra, he would have run off immediately and gotten _all_ the badges, if he hadn't simply had a heart attack on the spot. Before they'd left Earth, the fashion for sci-fi movie space aliens had involved a lot of scantily-clad, ethereal-looking, vaguely female humanoids or big maneating bugs. Hollywood was going to freak when it got its first look at what was really out there. And probably be disappointed. The only really large, buglike, and potentially maneating alien they'd seen so far was Zorjesca, and she would only have been that sort of a threat to Ketzewan's people. The fact that Zorjesca and Ketzewan were fast friends would have driven the average Hollywood horror-movie producer into a blue funk for days.

Everybody got two token machines and a manual for their upkeep, and then Pidge had to go around saying her good-byes. This took some time, considering how many people had become dear to her over the past six months, and she would not be hurried. Leaving Ronok was especially wrenching for her, even though he promised to write to her every week, and that he would be fine now since he had Tamzet to look after. He would also be helping Zoallam with his current project.

“You're leaving the _Quandary?”_ Pidge asked, amazed at him.

He nodded. “It's time. Kaslep and Trogeth know everything that I do about keeping our crew fed properly, and Zoallam's promised to design a culinary academy for me. We're going to be drawing on the Halidexans for crew in the future, and that means that some of them must be taught cosmic cookery. I've been promised a very comfortable house by the Minister of Offworld Relations, and a very comfortable job in teaching their youngsters my secrets. Apparently, my cooking was the only thing that kept the Royal Family's stay in our brig from being totally unbearable. Indeed, their guard captain's already asked for my recipe for baked loshak.”

Pidge giggled. “You bake the best loshak in the universe. Are you going with him, Tamzet?”

Tamzet nodded. “I like cooking, and I want to learn everything he's got to teach. Besides, Helenva will only be able to visit now and again, and someone's got to look after our Uncle. Maybe later I'll join a crew again, but I think that I've had enough of the glories of space travel for now. It's a nice planet, and you'll always know where to find us.”

She'd hugged them both, then made her farewells to the Halidexans, and then went to Nasty's quarters aboard the _Quandary_ to see if Nasty was ready to go yet. He was indeed, as it turned out, with his belongings zipped up into two large bags and an eager expression on his sly face. As much as he'd bemoaned her forcing him into this awkward situation, the prospect of hanging around with genuine heroes on a heroic ship and teaching them definitively unheroic things was enormously attractive to him, and he couldn't wait to start this new adventure. In truth, she'd be glad to have him around. The Castle was going to seem even bigger and emptier than before because Kolivan had already been by and had spirited Kolanth, Helenva, and Kelezar away. Zaianne was staying, of course. Kolivan wasn't stupid, and he knew how determined the woman was to stay with her son, and how necessary her role was as Allura's copilot.

“Okay, Nasty, just drop your stuff behind the pilot's seat,” she said when they reached the green Lion. “Hold on tight to the chair, all right? Shechethra's not really built for carrying passengers. “We'll fly nice, we promise.”

“Aw, don't I get to drive?” Nasty said, looking all around the cockpit in fascination.

Pidge paused; her Lion had just sent her a mental image of Nasty being spat out onto the decking. “Nope. The Lion says, and I quote, _'thpppppttt!'”_

Nasty grinned at her. “Yeah, that's what Kezz said the last time I offered to fly his fighter. It's pretty much the same thing. Okay, Varda, launch this cat! I want to see some Altean architecture that isn't in ruins.”

Pidge responded to that request by sending Shechethra surging forward in vast bounds, grinning like a demon while Nasty tumbled back yelping onto his bags. They shot out into space in a wild rush, spinning into a series of barrel rolls to avoid the other craft in this crowded orbit. She did pause for a minute or two to look back and catch an image of the grand scene behind them for her image collection: the Ghost Fleet superimposed proudly upon the great mottled orb of Halidex with the sun blazing behind it. She would miss those fine ships and all aboard them, but there were other things that she had to do now. _Home,_ Shechethra told her, _pack. Family. At last._

Pidge swallowed a few traitorous tears and headed toward the ancient blue-and-white ship that hung up in the next orbit out. Her family was waiting for her.

Shechethra soon settled back down in her hangar with almost palpable relief, allowing her Paladin and their guest to dismount as soon as all four paws were on the floor. Pidge took that as a hint, and helped Nasty get his luggage to the nearby lift that would take them to the main tower of the Castle.

“Well, this is a good start,” Nasty muttered as the lift took them upward. “I've discovered the one elevator in the universe that doesn't spew bad music at you.”

Pidge giggled. “Would you like some?”

“Nah, gives me hives, and I'd have to stab the speakers.” Nasty smirked. “Got thrown out of three malls for doing that, and got declared a hero at three others. I swear, they use that stuff as mind control. Where's my room?”

Pidge indicated the level selector. “Allura told me that they'd fixed up suite #28 in the west wing for you, level six. It's got a comfy bed, an entertainment center, a first-class bathroom, and plenty of room to set up an exercise space in, although Allura says she'd prefer it if you used the training deck for knife practice. We'll get your luggage stashed there, and then the guys want to meet you on the engineering deck.”

“Huh. Okay,” Nasty said, giving her a suspicious look. “How come?”

She winked at him. “Best place to explain the house rules, and to show you your off-duty objective. Diplomat, right? She wants to get off to the best start possible.”

“Great,” Nasty said, and hefted his luggage as the lift hissed to a halt.

He was well-pleased with his quarters, which were rather nicer than his dim little cave of a cabin aboard the _Quandary,_ and followed her back down to the engineering deck in a cheerful frame of mind. There they were met by the four other Paladins, the mice, and both dragons, who were very curious about their guest. Allura waited until Nasty had been well-whiffled and approved of before speaking in order to get his full attention; being sniffed over by two elephant-sized pseudolizards was very distracting, as she knew well from personal experience.

“If I may have your attention,” Allura said, once Tilla and Soluk were satisfied, “I believe that I must acquaint you with the house rules. They're quite simple and sensible, really, and there aren't all that many of them.”

“Best kind,” Nasty said. “Lay 'em on me, Princess, and I'll decide which ones to ignore.”

She gave him a stern look. “At your own peril, so be warned. Rule One: do not attempt to steal the ship. You, as far as I know, do not have the ability to operate a teludav system, and in any case the AI will probably fry you if you attempt it.

“Rule Two: no duels of honor in the lounge, please. I can't replace the furniture easily.

“Rule Three: do not attempt to steal the Lions. They will probably kill you and then laugh about it.

“Rule Four: do not attempt theft of anybody's personal belongings. I know that I, at least, will kill you and then laugh about it. The others may or may not do the same.

“Rule Six: do _not_ play Dix-Par for anything other than cookies, especially not when playing with Tilla. She tends to win.

“Rule Seven: you are here for a reason, and that is to teach. That means that you will hunt about for these--” she drew something long and silvery out of a belt pouch and flipped it through the air to Pidge, “--on your own time. Am I clear?”

Nasty's grin had gotten wider and wider as she had spoken. “As crystal, Lady. Let's just have a look at that, Varda. Ooh, nice pattern.”

Pidge had caught the butterknife easily, which was heavier than it looked. Solid silver, just as Nasty had demanded, with a very attractive, sort of _art nouveau_ motif on the handle. Pidge remembered that her mother had always wanted a dinner set of this nature, and made a mental note to send her one the next time they were anywhere near Earth. She twirled the knife around her finger, fixing her knife instructor with a stern look. “Got that memorized, Nasty? Good. There are twelve full settings, a soup tureen, a sweetener bowl with attached tongs, a gravy boat, four ladles in four different sizes, and a pickle jar; there is only one pair of jitlan tongs, and all of the pieces have the same motif. The mice have been given full authority to make this really difficult. We'll start you off with an easy one.”

So saying, she turned and dropped the knife down a bottomless pit.

They had met at the core nexus of the upper engineering deck, where huge sections of the floor were missing in order to allow mechanics to service the larger and more inconvenient of the ship's systems. This one went down for at least seven levels, and while it didn't surprise her when Nasty vaulted over the rail after the silver knife with a whoop of glee, the others were aghast.

“Holy crow! Pidge, you killed him!” Lance yelped, scrambling over to the rail to peer down into the pit.

“Don't be silly,” Pidge replied, leaning casually on the rail next to him. “Who do you think taught me how to leap catwalks? Compared to some parts of the Stronghold, this pit is _nothing._ Besides, this shows him that we take his skills seriously, and we both get extra points for using the local terrain. Believe it or not, I'm being polite.”

“Maybe,” Hunk said, “but you're not supposed to--”

“ _Found it!”_ Nasty's voice echoed cheerfully up to them. _“Hey, there's half a Sentry down here.”_

“Really?” Pidge said, leaning over the rail, trying to get a look. “I thought that I'd gotten them all.”

“ _You missed one. Want me to bring it up? It's the top half, so you'll be able to make a tea-server out of it, or something.”_

Pidge made a face. “Sure, bring it up, but I'll pass on the tea.”

“ _Suit yourself. Can I have it? It'll make a great demo-drone for Crude Gestures 101. Seriously, Varda, how do you guys manage with only two arms?”_

“Badly, and no, you can't have it. I'll break it down for parts later.”

“ _Aw, you're no fun. Flipping the other guy off is half of Discourse.”_ Nasty hauled himself back over the banister a few minutes later and dumped a very dead Sentry at her feet, flipping the butterknife in one of the other hands. “Here you go, one handy-dandy tin can. At least wire it so that it pokes people unexpectedly, huh? So, when do you want to start—hey!”

Plachu, the tallest of Allura's mice, had leaped off of Soluk's nose and nipped the knife right out of his fingers, taking off at top speed toward the ducts with the other mice right behind him. “Foul!” Nasty yelled, taking off after them as fast as he could go.

It is truly astonishing how quickly a rodent can run if it really doesn't want to be caught, and the Paladins and dragons watched the chase with interest. Keith sighed. “Well, at least we won't be bored.”

“Boredom and Nasty are mutually exclusive,” Pidge said, and then shouted, “Plachu, that really was a foul. Once he's found it, it's off-limits. Give it back.”

Plachu passed the knife to Chuchule, who whipped around and hurled it point-first at Nasty's head. He caught it, naturally enough, but didn't have the time to yell at them before he spotted fat Platt, the biggest of the mice, saunter past wearing a napkin ring like a belt.

“You!” snarled Nasty.

“ _Eeek!”_ mocked Platt, and took off running.

Nasty gave chase, of course, and did not pause even when Platt ran right up Soluk's tail, over his back, and leaped off of his nose; he followed the mouse up and over the dragon, who let out an affronted _gronk_ that echoed off of the walls. Both mouse and Unilu paused at that, looked over their shoulders at the charging dragon, and then scrambled away with nearly identical squeals of terror. The Paladins watched them thoughtfully as they raced around the hub a few times, picking up the other mice and Tilla as they went along, and then as the whole horde of them headed out in the general direction of the docking bay. Pidge yawned. “They'll be thundering around all night at this rate. Have you guys already had dinner? I ate with the _Quandary's_ crew.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance said happily. “Hunk tried out that recipe for those crunchy eggroll things. Seriously good stuff. Thinking about turning in?”

“Yeah, it's been a hard day.” Pidge stared around at the hub, both familiar and unfamiliar to her now, and missed her second uncle. “Except... except I really don't want to sleep alone.”

She giggled then, for Hunk's, Lance's, and Keith's ears had turned red in unison. “It's not like that. I used to sleep in the _Quandary's_ pantry, in my own little fort. Ronok's cabin was only a few steps away, and there was always someone working in the kitchen. I was lonely all last night in my room... and I've missed you guys.”

She looked up at them with huge, sad golden eyes, against which none of the others had any defenses. _And her Dad and her brother are a zillion lightyears away and probably won't find out,_ thought the male members of the party. “Well,” Allura said delicately, “Hunk once described the concept of a pajama party to me. It sounded interesting. Snacks, gossip, pillow fights... you could tell us of your adventures among the pirates.”

“In the dragon's nest on the training deck,” Hunk suggested. “Tilla and Soluk stole all the spare blankets and pillows again anyway, and if they aren't going to be using it tonight--”

There was a rumble from one of the side doors that made them look around. Soluk thundered by with the mice sitting on his head, one of them waving the napkin ring. Giving chase was Nasty on Tilla's back, brandishing his butterknife as though it were a saber and shouting inventive threats. Lance laughed. “Nope, I think they're busy. Fanlen made me a copy of the _Book With No Pictures_ as a farewell present. Hunk, you want to get the snacks?”

“Sure.” Hunk grinned happily. “Allura, Keith, c'mon and help me with the fizzy drink packets and stuff. Meet you there, Pidge.”

A little while later, they had made themselves a comfortable spot in the middle of the chaotic nest of blankets and cushions that the dragons had piled up, complete with large baskets of various nibbles and drinks, they were lying clustered together and enjoying each other's company. The _Book With No Pictures_ was indeed a success, sending them all into hoots of laughter, and now they were enjoying an unexpected treat. Lizenne had forgotten to move the file of media that she'd gleaned from Earth on her brief visit there out of the Castle's data banks, and Hunk had spent the last six months poking through it all. Hunk had chosen a classic for them—Mel Brooks' _Silent Movie,_ which was hilarious, even though they had to pause it fairly often to explain some of the humor to Allura. Even so, she found it very strange in spots.

“Could be worse, Princess,” Hunk said with a sly grin that looked out of place on his genial features. “She's also got the Director's Cut version of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ in that file, and that one's too weird for a lot of Humans to handle.”

Lance dissolved into a fit of snickers. “Got that right. Me and my family went on vacation once, and we wound up staying in the same hotel as a science fiction convention. They were playing that crazy film in the movie room, and I snuck in to watch... Wow, did it ever expand my worldview, and my vocabulary. The next day I got a swat across the bottom with my Mom's shoe when she heard me using some of the words I learned in there.”

“And the songs,” Hunk chortled, “and then you taught all the little kids how to do the Time Warp.”

Keith let out a hoot of laughter. “You didn't! Didn't you grow up in a mostly Catholic neighborhood?”

Pidge began to giggle uncontrollably. “Oh, wow! They must have thought you all had demons of iniquity in your underwear!”

Lance winced and rubbed his behind in remembered pain. “Yeah, and you can bet that my Mom and my Aunts all tried to exorcise them. Often with the same shoe.”

Allura laughed. “That sounds like quite an amusing dance. I wouldn't mind seeing it myself.”

“It's fun,” Hunk said, tugging at his pajama bottoms. “I'd demonstrate, but the pelvic thrusts make my pants fall down. Not something you want to have to deal with right now, unless you can sew me some suspenders, Lance.”

Lance made a face. “I can't sew anything right now. Pidge still hasn't lifted her evil influence from my sewing machine yet, and it keeps trying to get loose and savage what clothes I do have. Or staple my butt to the wall. Or turn my room into a live-fire acupuncture range. Way to go, Pidge—Kolanth wanted to borrow the thing for a combat practice drone, and I just might give it to him the next time he visits!”

Keith hummed thoughtfully. “I might steal it first. You know, people used to be really scared of machines achieving sentience and killing everybody... the Singularity, they called it. After you've seen a Sentry doing the Macarena, the idea kind of loses its punch.”

Allura waved a hand grandly at her teammates. “We have met the Singularity, and her name is Pidge. Hello, Pidge, are you Singular today?”

“As Singular as a black hole,” Pidge declared, reaching for just one more fistful of popcorn. “No one and nothing is like me, past, present, or future, and that's just the way I like it. You guys are pretty cool too.”

Hunk flopped down on his back in a drift of pillows. “Sounds lonely.”

She chewed her popcorn, yawned hugely, and flopped down next to him. “Yeah. That's why you've gotta have other Singularities around. Ever notice how comic book superheroes and villains, the ones who worked alone, they tended to go crazy a lot? Nobody to hug. Bam. Right there, that's the reason that they go nuts and blow up a city or something. I bet that a lot of trouble could have been avoided if somebody went back in time and gave people like Magneto or the Joker a big hug at just the right time in their lives. Hugs save worlds, guys.”

Hunk snapped his fingers. “I like that concept. That's a good concept. I need to put that on a T-shirt. _Hugs Save Worlds._ You guys want one? I want one. I want all the hugs.”

Everybody was of the opinion that hugs were a good thing, and cuddled together to share some of the best. Warm and comfortable in their mutual embrace, they soon dropped off to sleep.

Later on, very much tired out from chasing mice and silverware thieves, Tilla and Soluk ventured into their nest, only to find it occupied. The two dragons shared a perplexed look, shrugged, and tucked themselves in around the cluster of sleeping teenagers—pausing briefly to finish off the remaining snacks, of course. A little time later, Zaianne, Coran, and a weary but triumphant Nasty, butterknife and napkin ring in hand, happened by and paused to gaze at the communal napfest. Coran viewed the scene with great satisfaction and tugged at his mustache. “A proper polychromatic cuddle convention, with two bonus dragons. Still in pajamas, I'm afraid, but it's a step in the right direction.”

Zaianne caught his ear between thumb and forefinger. “Quiet, fool. That's a cub-huddle, not a love nest. The girls will make their claim in good time. Thinking about commenting, Celenast?”

Nasty waved his hands in a warding gesture. “I wouldn't know what to say. How do Humans breed, anyway? I'm still not sure how many genders they've got.”

Zaianne's lips twisted into a wry smile. “Two sexes, roughly a dozen genders, and a very long history of enthusiastic experimentation if half of what I saw on their entertainment vids was to be believed. As for actual attempts to procreate? Ask Coran here. I do believe that verses seven, ten through twelve, and nineteen of that filthy song of his describes the process fairly well, although they usually leave out the high-wire act. Now, shoo. They need their rest and so do we.”

 

Pidge came awake very slowly. She was very warm and very comfortable, and for some reason she had the peculiar, dreamy notion that she was one of a set of Cuddle Bears. Those had been the “it” toy for little kids just before she'd left Earth, and they had been stupidly popular. Emphasis on the stupidly, she'd thought; Cuddle Bears were nothing more than miniature plush teddy bears sold in sets of five for way too much money and were made in third-world countries by underpaid natives. They were cutesy-sweet and brightly-colored and had a simple device implanted in them that made them grab onto just about anything and cuddle it; sort of like tiny, neon-colored, sex-crazed koalas hopped up on heavy-duty euphorics. Some of the special-edition ones had cooed, squeaked, and purred as well, which was just creepy. Pidge had scorned the whole concept as an insult to robotic science, and rightly so.

That didn't make her feel any less fuzzy and cuddled.

She opened one suspicious eye, ready to scream if she saw any huge, Disney-esque plastic eyes staring back at her, and was enormously relieved to see Tilla sprawled on her belly instead. There is nothing like a sacked-out Zampedri prairie dragon to bring a person back to reality. Pidge considered that thought, reflected on her life goals and current situation, and gave it up for a bad idea. Her stomach, on the other hand, was an organ that was made of solid reality, and it wanted breakfast. Pidge tried to sit up, only to have someone whiffle in her ear and hug her closer. Hunk, she realized. Well, that was all right, since she had a grip on Keith's pajama top, and someone else had draped an arm over her waist, and someone else had a good grip on her leg. When she tried to wiggle loose, there was a chorus of grunts and mumbled protests, and a general closing of the ranks around her. She lay still for a little while then, staring meditatively at the ceiling, although she eventually felt inspired to voice a warning.

“Guys, if I don't get to the little Paladin's room soon, parts of me are going to make their own arrangements, and I am not going to clean that up.”

There was a snort, a couple of groans, and a mutter of, “Sure. Now whose leg is this?” from Lance.

“Mine, I think,” Hunk said around an enormous yawn.

“No, it's mine,” Allura said blurrily. “Hands off, Lance.”

“You sure?” Lance asked. “It looks sort of Pidgey from this angle. Let's just find out. Kootchie-kootchie-koo...”

Keith let out a squawk and jerked his leg out of Lance's grip. “Stop that!”

There was a general snickering, mostly from Lance. “Didn't know you had ticklish feet, Keith. How much more of you—mrph!”

Allura had pushed his face down into a handy pillow. “Stop that. If you hadn't noticed, we're surrounded!”

Everyone looked up at the living wall of spikes all around them. Parts of it were snoring.

“Wow,” muttered Hunk. “Well, I think we can get out over their noses, but first we have to get untangled. Um. Whose arm is this? I don't think it's mine.”

“Well, it isn't mine. Mine's trapped under Lance,” Allura said, shoving at his rump, “and I can't feel my fingers!”

Keith grunted and tried to pull himself loose. “And I can't feel my right arm. Pidge, you're actually going to have to let go. Try wiggling the fingers a little, Allura, that should get the blood moving again.”

Lance yelped and lurched to one side as something in the general vicinity of his navel began to wriggle and flopped over Hunk; his own leg had gotten tangled in a blanket, which in turn was anchored by Hunk's not inconsiderable bulk. Hunk sat up, spilling teammates right and left into a couple of smaller heaps, and forgot to look where he was putting his hands.

“ _Hunk,”_ both Pidge and Allura chorused warningly.

Hunk snatched his hands back. “Sorry.”

“Clear off, Twinkle-toes,” Lance said, trying to disentangle himself from Keith's stockier body.

“Twinkle-toes?” Allura asked curiously.

“Someone who's fast and nimble on his feet,” Pidge said, “often used sarcastically when someone's being clumsy.”

Allura grabbed Keith's left foot, lifting it up and overbalancing him face-first into a pile of pillows. She spread his toes and drew a finger down the arch, eliciting loud but muffled protests from the other end of her teammate. “I don't know, he's got quite nice feet. Quite graceful, as such things go, with a nice high arch and a narrow heel. Very dainty, in fact, for a young man. You'd think he'd only have two toes, though.”

“Still mostly Human!” Keith protested, clawing himself free of their bedding and trying to pull free of her grip with rather less luck.

Lance patted his head. “On the outside, anyway. Now, c'mon, Fairy-Feet, I want breakfast.”

“Oh, I'll give you 'fairy-feet', Sasquatch,” Keith growled and grabbed Lance by both ankles as he tried to stand up, sending Lance once again into the pillows.

This devolved into an enthusiastic wrestling match that continued until Hunk pulled them apart, holding them tightly against his chest in a big hug. “My god, you guys are cute. Now, c'mon, you two, Pidge isn't the only one who's gotta use the facilities. Just help me lift the girls over Tilla's nose, okay?”

Sighing and grumbling, the two grumpy Paladins moved to comply, Lance taking advantage of his long, lanky legs to leap over the dragon's huge spiky head. Hunk boosted Keith over next, who landed neatly on his perfectly normal feet. Hunk then picked Allura up and tossed her to Lance, then passed Pidge to Keith, who caught her neatly and set her down to help Lance steady Hunk as he stepped carefully over the lowest part of the barrier. On the whole, Pidge thought as she and her team put on their slippers and padded out of the room, that was one of the better morning experiences she'd ever had.

Assuming, of course, that the definition of “morning” meant “a period of four hours after waking up”; they'd all slept very late, according to the timepiece that Hunk had placed in the kitchen. None of them felt particularly guilty about that. After all, hadn't they just brought together a convocation of powers that bid fair to change the fate of an entire Sector? Yeah, the Universe owed them a late morning or two, and when Hunk declared it to be a pajama day, not even Allura could object. He was soon humming happily as he turned out a meal that was both breakfast and lunch at the same time, which he and his teammates attacked the moment that it hit the table. It is not widely known, but one of the best accolades that a skilled cook can get is the crowded, busy silence of a group of people devouring his work.

Eventually, Lance slowed down enough to vent a prizewinning belch. “Wow, that's better. Having fun with Ronok's cookbook again, Hunk?”

“You betcha,” Hunk replied smugly. “Artistry should be honored, and I took the opportunity to do some grocery shopping on Halidex. They're a major trade hub around here, which was why the Galra wanted them. They didn't have everything, though. Sorry, Pidge, but I couldn't get any thelwisk seeds. They're really rare, and Ronok said that he'd been sort of hoarding his.”

She sighed and gazed sadly at her empty plate. “I know, and not just because I was sleeping in them. He said that thelwisk was super hard to grow anywhere but its home planet, and was picky about where it grew even there. I'll deal. I'm really going to miss Ronok, though.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a really cool guy,” Keith said sympathetically, “him taking you under his wing like that. I sort of wish that I had an uncle like that. Uncle Jake did his best, but his job didn't really leave him a lot of time for me. It would have been nice to have someone around all the time to hold onto.”

“Especially after a nightmare,” Allura shuddered. “You had some bad ones, Pidge, and we got them too—right through the Lion-bond! That one where you were on the Hoshinthra ship--”

Pidge groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Don't talk about that ship. I did not like that ship. There was nothing about that ship to like. Shussshorim's awesome in a fight, but as a person—our sort of person, anyway—she's horrible, and _yes,_ I know that she was designed that way, but it really doesn't help. And the Halidexans think her sons are pretty. Yuck.”

“There's no accounting for taste,” Hunk said, nibbling crumbs off of his plate, “but if you want my opinion, the Queen of Yuck is still Haggar. I mean, we caught glimpses of what she looked like on the flipside from your dreams and--”

Pidge's fork clattered onto her plate as she had a sudden epiphany. “Haggar. Oh, _tushwa,_ that's what I've been forgetting! Shiro! We've got to save Shiro! She's got him, I just know it! But how could she... I don't know! Lizenne. I've got to talk to Lizenne!”

Pidge sprang up from her chair and took off running so fast that she left her slippers behind. Concerned, the others followed, Hunk pausing only long enough to grab her abandoned footwear. He soon wound up carrying not only those, but his own and those of the others, too; it is very difficult to run in slippers, especially at the breakneck pace that Pidge was setting. They scrambled into the bridge in a panting, sore-footed rush in time to hear Pidge demand, “Coran, where's Lizenne?”

“Aboard the _Chimera,”_ Coran replied, with a look of surprise for the pajama-clad and breathless group. “They wanted a little privacy after last night, and—wait! What's the rush?”

Pidge had spun on her heel and flown out of the room, her teammates close behind her. She kept up that blistering pace all the way down to the docking lobby, where she spat a few sizzling swearwords when she found that the docking tube between the Castle and the _Chimera_ had been retracted, barring her way. The big blue-green ship was clearly visible from the lobby's screens, revealing the Castle's stepsister-ship to be well within her range. She reached for the Hanifor craft's AI and found it with ease. It wasn't the same as the other ships she'd touched, lacking the purple taint of Galra craft or the clear pale blue of the Castle, or even the subtle colors of the civilian craft that Plosser had forced her to steal. The _Chimera_ burned with the same lively golden-orange of a good campfire, and it regarded her with a healthy interest that was very much like Osric's. This was a friend, not a servant, and Pidge acted accordingly. “Chimera, I need to talk to your boss. Right now, this is really important! Extend the docking tunnel please.”

The _Chimera_ hadn't been forbidden to do so, and the Paladins watched in mild awe as the ship adjusted its angle and formed the bridge. “Wow,” she heard Hunk say. “That's almost scary. No, wait, that _is_ scary, but only if you're the bad guy. That's too cool.”

Pidge paid little mind to that compliment, but flung herself down the passage as soon as the tube had gotten a good seal on the hatch. Once across, however, she was lost, having never set foot on this ship before. “Chimera, I need help! Where is she?”

“ _Tertiary chemistry lab,”_ the precise tenor of the AI's voice said primly, _“Follow the hall to the first lift on the left. I'll take you right down there. Please observe Shipboard Laboratory Rule #37: 'No Running While Flailing Like An Idiot'; some of those chemicals are dangerous.”_

“Okay,” Pidge said, observing distractedly that the Hanifors were a sensible people, and took off running again.

 

Lizenne peered closely at the old-fashioned titration rig that she'd set up on one of the lab benches. It was an awkward, rather primitive apparatus, but it was the only way to get the mixture of chemicals just right; sintras were finicky bushes and insisted on an abundance of certain nutrients that would surprise most biologists very much. While obtaining these nutrients naturally was simplicity in itself back on Zampedri, it wasn't particularly feasible in the envirodeck—the main source of those nutrients happened to be the dung of a Zampedran predator that could easily devour her dragons. Compounding the fertilizer by hand was therefore a tedious but necessary job.

Carefully, she measured a clear fluid drop by drop into a large beaker of purple liquid, and not until the final droplet had turned the beaker's contents to a rather unsettling reddish-pink did she stop, and was capping off the beaker for the following fermentation process when the lab's door flew open and a crowd of half-frantic teenagers piled through. Lizenne soon found the green Paladin clinging to her lab coat, babbling something about needing to rescue someone.

“Girl, calm down!” she said sternly, “if I drop this, it will explode, and we will spend the rest of the day treating each others' chemical burns. Didn't my ship warn you about Rule #37? And how did you get here, anyway? Modhri's taking a nap and I know that our ships weren't connected.”

“She just looked out the window at the _Chimera_ and told it to make a bridge,” Lance panted. “I'm not sure what this is about.”

“It's Shiro,” Pidge said, letting go of Lizenne's coat and stepping back, “We have to rescue him!”

Lizenne gave her a puzzled frown and set the beaker safely into the fermentation cabinet. “Good trick. Where, or should I say,  _when_ is he?”

“I don't know! He was in my dream!” Pidge said fretfully, “Haggar almost had me, but he stopped her, and he wouldn't follow me when I ran. She's got him, and she'll do something _awful!”_

“Dreams,” Lizenne muttered softly, “and the rest of you were picking up on those handily enough through the Lions... and those weren't ordinary nightmares. Damn.” She pointed one finger at a chair that had been shoved under one bench. “You will sit down on that and tell me every single dream that you can remember since you joined those pirates. All of them, even the boring or weird ones.”

Grateful that she was being taken seriously, Pidge pulled the chair out and plopped down in it. “Even the ones I got from the fish salad?”

Lizenne smiled wryly. “Was it lurix-fish salad?”

Pidge shrugged. “Most of the time. It was easy to get, and most of the crew really liked it. Why?”

“Because it's been scientifically proven that lurix-fish protein can boost precognitive ability in most carbon-based lifeforms.” Lizenne leaned back on the lab bench with a smirk. “Delicious, nutritious, and it helps with forward planning. Speak, girl. Tell me everything.”

Pidge complied as much as she was able to, although most of her dreams had clearly been the product of stress and fatigue. The ones spent running through the tall grasses, however, were something else again. The last one in particular was significant.

“You _what?”_ Lizenne said, very surprised.

“I declared _kheshveg,”_ Pidge replied. “I could feel everything that she was going to do, everything that she'd already done, and it was the only possible response. I didn't really know what it was at the time, but it felt right, and it made her really mad.”

“As well it should,” Lizenne said, scowling into the middle distance. “If you'd had just a little more training, you could have erased her with a word. You're strong, but untrained. Haggar's been practicing the Art for ten thousand years and would have known that.”

Pidge glared at her hands. “Damn.”

“But what about Shiro?” Allura asked plaintively. “How was he even able to be there, and where is he now?”

Lizenne sighed, and was silent for a long moment as she considered that. “I can't say; that's more your ability than mine. Try to find him through the pack-bond, and ask the black Lion to help you.”

“What if he's dead?” Hunk blurted.

“Then there is nothing that we can do.” She said simply. “Get to it. We need confirmation, lest the pack dissolve into chaos. The pack is as one, and no packmate may be abandoned.”

Keith nodded. “Okay, guys, let's do this. One way or another, we have to know.”

Lizenne watched as they closed ranks around Allura, closing their eyes and going still and silent. Her more esoteric senses felt them searching along vectors that did not exist in the material world, and she waited patiently until they were finished. Toward the end of their search, her sensitive toes felt a faint vibration through the floorplates that puzzled her until she saw the answering wince crease Allura's brow.

“Well?” she asked when they surfaced again.

“He's alive,” Keith said, “we could find that much, but we don't know where he is.”

Allura nodded. “The black Lion can't find him, and he's upset about that. Oh, dear, poor Coran! He gets nervous when the Lions roar unexpectedly like that!”

“Shiro's being blocked somehow, like he's in a bubble or something,” Lance said unhappily. “Is that possible?”

Lizenne nodded. “It takes a great deal of work, but it is possible to isolate and conceal a member of a soul-bonded team. Haggar has more than enough power and helpers to do it, and she won't cry any tears if those spells damage him. Damn. I'm going to have to talk to him about this 'damsel-in-distress' problem he's got. He can't function as a proper part of the team if he's forever getting himself abducted, lost, and abstracted.”

“Focus on finding him first!” Pidge shouted, waving her arms in frustration. “Haggar's already taken chunks out of him, and after that shiner he gave her, she might kill him!”

Hunk stared at her. “Seriously? He punched her in the face?”

“Robot hand,” Pidge said, indicating the appropriate eye. “I bet she's still sore.”

“And deservedly so,” Lizenne said, removing her lab coat and hanging it up neatly in a closet. “She won't kill him. He won't get off that easily.”

The Paladins stared at her in growing horror. “What do you mean?” Allura whispered.

Lizenne shook her head. “She knows how much we value him now. He's too useful as bait, or as a hostage, or as leverage. There are all sorts of implants, both aetheric and mechanical, that she can set into his body to confound us if he does manage to escape. She can take him down for parts and rebuild him into something vile, or convert him into a Robeast and send him to destroy us. He has also had the poor taste to lay hands upon her, and to thwart her capture of an extremely rare and dangerous specimen. Oh, no, she will not kill him. Whether or not there will be enough left of him to salvage once she sees fit to dangle him temptingly before us, that's the question.”

“You rebuilt Modhri, didn't you?” Hunk pointed out. “He was really messed up.”

A look of pain crossed Lizenne's features. “He was, and I did. It's not something that I would like to have to do again, however. Even with your help, the help of the Lions, and perhaps even that of the dragons, there are limits. The sooner we find him, the better.”

Lance groaned. “Does this mean that we're going to have to crash the Center again?”

Lizenne shrugged. “It's possible, but she'll be expecting that. There are other labs, and I have no idea where they might be. Some of them are aboard starships and may move about at will. The Blade of Marmora may know more.”

Keith's eyes glinted. “We'll talk to Mom. I'm not going to let Haggar destroy him!”

“Good.” Her grave expression developed a smile. “You might want to get dressed first, though. One doesn't pilot ancient, legendary war machines to attempt daring rescues while in one's sleepwear.”

They looked down at their rumpled pajamas, flushed in embarrassment, and filed out. A moment later, Pidge stuck her head back into the room. “I can if I want to,” she said snippily and then ducked back out of sight before anything could be thrown at her.

Chuckling, Lizenne turned back to her work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kokochan: Okay, a couple of things. First, Spanch has some great news!  
> Spanch: Yes indeedy. My computer was successfully rebuilt, and we lost nothing--the entire fic is still fully intact! We also found out what killed the motherboard. My cat had pissed directly into the vent at the perfect angle to drown the circuitry. I am not making this up. My machine is now on the highest point of my desk, well out of the reach of filthy-minded felines, and I encourage you all to copy that example, just in case.  
> Kokochan: Second, Spanch is finally getting an account on Ao3! *throws confetti* Once that's fully set up, I'll get her name put on these fics, and she'll be posting her own stories. Mostly first-gen Transformers, for anyone who likes that series. And lastly, a huge THANK YOU and a million zillion hugs to all of you who have been reading our fiction and continue to encourage and support us. We're going to take a break now that Piratology is all finished so that we can make a little more progress with Arc 4, or at least until we stop trying to strangle each other into submission over what it should be titled. We hope you'll join us again when we return for more Voltron adventures!
> 
> (And also? I know we left it on a kinda cliffhanger. Please don't kill us.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are our life blood. I'm pretty sure that if someone cut me, they'd just find emojis. So please, if you particularly liked something, or have a question, or even just want to squeal, drop us a line!
> 
> Also, that Season 4, huh? Wow. Did anyone besides us catch the Star Fox gag? And I get the feeling Keith looked at the recordings of the Voltron Shows and felt like he dodged a massive bullet and possibly swore off noodles for the rest of his life.


End file.
